


What Comes After

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Use/Abuse, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs (Not Between Draco and Hermione), F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, Past Relationship(s), Political Campaigns, Post-War, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Twenty Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Life is messy and complicated, even for perfectly put together Minister of Magic Hermione Granger. All it takes is a tectonic shift, the death of her husband, Ron Weasley, to shine a light on how less-than-perfect her life had become behind the scenes. Running a campaign for her re-election, Hermione must seek the help of a politically savvy handler, Draco Malfoy. Navigating life post-Ron is already hard, but once Draco enters her life after years of no contact, Hermione is going to have to decide whether running for re-election is worth demolishing the perfect façade she's presented to the wizarding world.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 203
Kudos: 169





	1. Six Months Later

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to What Comes After!
> 
> Beautiful artwork by the incredibly talented [LadyKenz347!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347)

  
[](https://imgbb.com/)  


  


_I want to break every clock  
The hands of time could never move again  
We could stay in this moment for the rest of our lives  
Is it over now, hey, hey, is it over now?  
**Inevitable, Anberlin**_

**Prologue**

If there was one thing Hermione Granger appreciated, it was a solid, uninterrupted routine. Control over the things that were uncontrollable brought her an unmitigated amount of peace. So, when she happened upon her husband, Ron Weasley, collapsed and unconscious in the bed they shared, lying on the embroidered duvet they’d received from his parents, every trace of predictability that she’d meticulously arranged for twenty years of her life was gone.

Gone in the scant space of a millisecond.

Every layer of carefully constructed planning ripped away.

Two decades of forethought, design, and groundwork: dashed.

One moment, she was Hermione Granger-Weasley: Minister of Magic, Indestructible Arm of the Golden Trio. The next, she was Hermione Granger-Weasley: Widow.

And it changed her in inexplicable ways. Ways she wasn’t equipped to evaluate or unpack. His death was a catalyst, a slow burning supernova; on the cusp of explosion, but not quite able to move on.

She didn’t know who she was without Ron. So inextricably entwined with him, Hermione spent the first six months after his death sequestered in her office. Take-away. Wine bottles. Whiskey. The only means of communication with the outside world was via a particularly ornery owl called Brutus.

And Brutus was particularly protective of Hermione’s privacy and well-being. Her contact was limited to the demands of her job. It was all she could tolerate.

In the six months following Ron’s death, Harry’s fist had thundered against her office door no fewer than a hundred times. His baritone voice demanded her presence at Christmas, then New Year, then Valentine’s Day, then Beltane—none of which she attended. She couldn’t—refused to face his family, lest they peel back the intricate layers Hermione had built so carefully. To protect herself. To protect Ron.

Then, Harry had sent Theo in his stead when it became apparent Hermione wasn’t going to respond to him. Theo had just stood outside her door silently. They never spoke, never even saw one another, but somehow Hermione knew he understood what she needed: time. His solemn presence, so vastly different than Harry’s explosive energy, had served to calm her on particularly rough days.

Days when the guilt would seep in. Dark, heavy, and oppressive. It clung to the air. Choked her. The only relief she found: the stinging burn of the Minister’s private whiskey stash.

She’d drown the guilt and her sorrow.

It was the only way she could keep her head above water. To simply survive.

Losing Ron stripped away her status quo and replaced it with chaos.

Facing the beautiful home she’d built with Ron was out of the question. She’d returned only once—to grab and pack her charmed beaded bag—and the woodsy smell of him permeated the entire house. It brought up memories of snuggling with one another on the sofa, of laughing at some raunchy movie on the telly, of Thai take-away, and warm, sensual nights. When she left the house for the last time, Hermione sealed off her memories and boxed them away, happy to lose herself in the present, in work, in anything that didn’t remind her of the man she’d had to say goodbye to before she was ready.

And Merlin, she’d thought she was ready so many times. But death had a funny way of blinding those left behind—to make them forget the not-so-good and the complicated, so all that was left were the moments leaden with regret and wishes that things had been different, perfect; that if those who’d died were somehow permitted to live once again, there’d be emphatic promises that things would get better. Somehow.

Rather than face those feelings, Hermione shoved them away. 

She hired a packing company to empty their house. She had a realtor sell their estate. Her beaded bag, Brutus, and the excessively few things she carried with her, resided in the official Minister’s Mansion: Number 10 And A Half Downing Street, London. There was a direct, secret access to her residence nestled behind the portrait of Ulick Gamp.

After six months of artificial light, meals from a container, and piles of unopened missives from everyone she had been avoiding, Hermione stepped through the portrait hole and into her publicly funded home. She hadn’t used it before; Ron had requested a simple life outside of her complicated work, and so she’d happily complied.

Ironic, she thought, given how utterly complicated everything became later in their life.

The mansion was scrupulously maintained by a staff of house elves, who upon seeing the famed Liberator Hermione Granger, hid in places Hermione couldn’t find. Every room came pre-furnished with ornate and embellished pieces she was sure were hundreds of years old. She cast several spells through the house in her first week, and discovered so many of its secrets: passageways leading to various rooms, an unplottable observatory on the roof, a panic room, and the etched initials of every Minister of Magic who came before her engraved upon a magically concealed door that led to the most luxurious office she’d ever seen.

In the office, she’d found aged firewhiskey—self-replenishing—and a bound journal as thick as her thigh filled with hand scrawled writings from a long succession of Ministers of Magic. Portraits hung along the walls, the eyes of its subjects following her every step in the room. Knowing glances shared between them as they watched her reach for the whiskey and a sparkling tumbler.

It took her several weeks to figure out how to work the enchantments on the window behind her desk. Another week to suss out the Floo in her office was only connected to her bedchamber.

And when she’d gone to bed for the first time, wrapped in a weighted duvet and hidden behind a heavy, sheer canopy, not one second of sleep found her.

All of the budding feelings of excitement and discovery paled as her mind careened back to her husband. How he wouldn’t have understood the importance of it all, and would wrap his arms around her waist and convince her to come home to watch Doctor Who. How he’d convince her that all they needed was each other… and what a great sodding lie that had been.

So, on the six month anniversary of Ron’s sudden death, Hermione sat in the middle of her much-too-large bed, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a full glass in the other. And she cried. Lamenting all the stolen moments, the heartache of knowing time would move on without him, that eventually, she would have to come out of her stupor and face the difficult truths she’d tucked away so carefully.

It would not be today.

Today, was for sadness. For guilt. For regret.

Today was to say goodbye one last time before finally opening her office door and facing a world that hadn’t stopped turning.


	2. Grief is a Bastard

_ We're here and now, but will we ever be again  
'Cause I have found  
All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade  
Away again  
**_Shimmer, Fuel_ ** _

__

  
  


__

“Hermione Granger, if you don’t open the door to this office right now, I swear my hand to all the old and new gods I am going to break the sodding thing down.”

__

She swung the door open, finding Harry mid-knock and red faced. A small, forced smile lifted the corner of her lips, pushing at the light wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

__

“Hello, Harry.”

__

Standing with his mouth gaping, Harry stared and she stared right back. He still stood a whole head taller than her, but try as he might to be imposing, he really was just a soft bloke whose face melted into obvious relief at seeing her.

__

She supposed she should feel guilty—Hermione hadn’t so much as said hello to Harry since Ron’s funeral. Once, he tried to reason that he’d been Ron’s best mate, and cut off his tune as Hermione launched a heavy paperweight at her solid mahogany door. Another time, he’d tried to use the Weasleys to encourage her out of her seclusion. She’d sent him a Howler the next day. That was the first time Theo had shown up at her door. He’d left a cake for her and a short letter Hermione still hadn’t opened.

__

So, the mixture of surprise and relief etched into Harry’s face was to be expected. Hermione allowed her hand to drop from the brass knob and she turned from him to sit behind her desk. The distance it provided was welcome as she gestured for Harry to take a seat across from her. He closed the door behind him, and Hermione prepared herself for a sound lashing from the friend she’d ignored for half a year.

__

“Is that…” Harry sniffed, lips pulling down and deepening his frown lines. “Are you  _ drunk _ right now?”

__

Steepling her fingers beneath her chin and resting her elbows on her desk, Hermione leaned forward slightly and narrowed her eyes. “Do I look or sound drunk right now?”

__

He took a moment and appraised her. Lingering on her puffy, erratic hair that was more frizz than curls. To the darkened rings around her eyes. The chapped skin of her pale lips. Unkempt robes askew on her shoulders.

__

“If not drunk, then… certainly not put together,” he hedged delicately as he sat and kicked an ankle over his knee. “Your office reeks of firewhiskey. And you look…”

__

She cautioned him to mind his words, folding her arms in front of her.

__

“I’m worried about you.” Harry hesitated, earnest green eyes searching for something in her eyes Hermione knew he wouldn’t find. “We’re all worried about you, love. Will you please come to dinner tonight? Theo’s making a roast.”

__

Her heart galumphed against her ribcage. “Just us?”

__

A sharp jut of his chin. “I promise.”

__

Sighing heavily, Hermione nodded. “Alright. Dinner tonight at yours. But I swear to Merlin, Harry Potter, if you try and stage some sort of intervention, I’ll murder you and I might be the only witch in the wizarding world who could get away with it.”

__

He let loose a nervous chuckle, but Hermione merely hardened her gaze. Swallowing, Harry’s lips dropped from their almost-smile. “I promise. Just a nice dinner between friends to celebrate the fact you finally opened the door to your office.”

__

“Fine.” Flinging herself back against her chair, Hermione crossed her legs. “Is that all, or do you want to have a go about how I’m choosing to mourn my husband.”

__

“Hermione.” Harry reached forward, softness lacing his words. “We’ve allowed you to mourn however you’ve seen fit. But the world still turns. And you’ve got an entire population who needs to see your beautiful face.”

__

Scoffing, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Perhaps it’s time I retire from the post. It’s what Ron would have wanted anyways.” She felt a pang stab her stomach, but she wasn’t sure if it was from saying his name out loud or the memory of their last fight that surfaced as she said the words.

__

Shaking his head, Harry disagreed vehemently. “Ron would have wanted you to carry on making a difference in the world. Do you know he told me so often how proud he is—was—of you and everything you’ve done?”

__

Her throat caught fire as tears built behind her eyes. After all this time, she’d thought she was cried out; sapped of the ability to lose tears. But, as they threatened to fall, she sniffed them back and lifted her chin. “Yes, well.” She decided not to tell Harry about the explosive argument they’d had and shoved it into the far recesses of her mind. “The election in six months will decide, I suppose, won’t it? I’m sure the country is tired of a widow signing legislation from behind a tightly closed door.”

__

“You really don’t read the press, do you?”

__

“You mean the papers that detail all the reasons Ronald Weasley was too good for his ambitious, intellectual, high-profile yet barren, wife?” She scoffed, wiping at her eyes. “Or, perhaps the dozen articles who thought it appropriate to dig into our pasts and drag up our dirty laundry? Did you see those articles, Harry? The photographs they plastered around England?”

__

Harry’s shoulders stiffened. Voice dropped to a bare whisper. Eyes snagged on hers and softening minutely. “They weren’t true, Hermione. You know that.”

__

“Do I?” It was Hermione’s turn to laugh, though humorlessly. She pulled a worn Daily Prophet from within the top drawer of her desk and flung it to Harry. “Front page news, you know. The way his blue eyes shined for Celestina Warbeck’s daughter, Ambrosia. How his arm circled her waist as if they were—what does the article say?— _ old familiar lovers _ .” Her voice tightened, all the things she’d held back for months and months, even before Ron’s death, clawed free. “Do you know what the article is missing, though?”

__

Hermione tossed another stack of papers, clipped at the corner with a thick staple, at Harry. A notch formed between his brow as he read. And she knew the bold heading would take him by surprise. It had certainly taken her by surprise.

__

**In The High Court of Justice, Principal Registry of the Family Division**

__

_ Yadda, yadda, yadda _ , Hermione catalogued mentally as she watched Harry’s eyes scan the papers.

__

**Between petitioner: Hermione Granger-Weasley**

__

**And respondent: Ronald Weasley**

__

**On the 11th Day of November, 2019**

__

_ Yadda, yadda, yadda _ , she thought as his eyes narrowed.

__

“...Has committed adultery,” Harry read slowly through one heavy, damning breath. “And that the petitioner finds it intolerable to live with the respondent.”

__

She laughed again, deader than before Harry began reading. “The thing is that I didn’t find it intolerable at all. But the law is the law.” Shrugging, Hermione ignored the tears carving paths in her cheeks. “I was so fucking angry, Harry. But I loved him so much. I never could bring myself to give him these papers, to let him know it had gone so far without him being any wiser.” Taking a breath, Hermione plowed forward saying the words she’d never told anyone. “Instead of filing a retraction to absolve the decree, I had to register his death.”

__

A hiccup escaped her lungs, tasting acidic and stinging with the whiskey she’d imbibed just moments before Harry knocked.

__

“Hermione.” Harry stood from the chair across from her and pivoted around her desk. He grabbed her around the shoulders and hugged her tight, burying his face in her rat’s nest of curls. “I had no idea—no clue you were going through this. I’m so sorry, love.”

__

“No one knew,” she said in a mechanical, detached voice. “The papers came close, of course, but couldn’t prove it. So.” Hermione cleared her throat and gently pushed Harry away. “To answer your question: no, I don’t read the press.”

__

Harry leaned against her desk. “How is it possible to want to kill him and bring him back all at the same time?” Hermione snorted through her nose, messy and wet. Producing a handkerchief, Harry held it out and graced her with a kind, conspiratorial smile. “It’s going to take me some time to reconcile this, you know? Ron was so in love with you, but…”

__

“We had our problems just like everyone else, Harry. You can’t forget that we’re people. We’re flawed, but we can still love in unconventional ways.”

__

“Yeah, I suppose.” He popped his neck in both directions. “Listen, we’ll have a strict No Ron policy tonight, alright? We can talk campaigning—Theo has an idea he thinks will assure your re-election.”

__

Re-election, Hermione thought with a long breath through pursed lips. Ron wouldn’t want her to carry on. But, what the bloody hell did  _ she  _ want? It wasn’t something she’d allowed herself to consider. Every action or inaction felt selfish somehow, as if he was watching from wherever he was, and criticizing however she moved forward. If she campaigned for re-election, would the public discover her dirty little secrets? Would they turn against her?

__

Would she lose everything all over again?

__

“Hermione.” Harry’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Just come and listen to what he has to say, yeah? No promises needed.”

__

Hermione lifted her chin to meet his eyes. “Will there be alcohol?”

__

He grinned, knowing he had her agreement. “I promise, Theo has old Nott barrels of firewhiskey he’s been saving for a special occasion.”

__

“Brilliant.”

__

__

* * *

__

  
  


__

Potter Cottage smelled of men; spicy cologne and wood, but there was a sweet scent permeating the large home—vanilla, maybe? Whatever it was, Hermione was certain Theo was responsible for it, as she couldn’t imagine Harry cared one way or the other what his home smelled like.

__

As she stepped through the Floo from her office to their cottage, Hermione gnawed on her bottom lip and wondered what she’d gotten herself into. Theo was a quiet presence, but she remembered how pushy he could be in eighth year; the git used his intelligence as a weapon, subterfuge.

__

He was brilliant. But scary.

__

“Harry?” Hermione called into the empty living room. “Theo?”

__

Decorated in muted grey, small splashes of color detailed their dueling tastes quite eloquently. The subtle hint of coral—on the throw pillows and curtains—and the rich cherry brown frames hanging on the walls were in perfect harmony. Much like the owners.

__

“Ah, darling!” Theo entered the room from the kitchen, his arms outstretched to pull her into a hug. An apron hung off his slender frame, tattoos adorning his arms from wrist to the bunched sleeves at his elbows. He wrapped her in a tight embrace and kissed her temple. “Thank Salazar you’ve agreed. I was one annoyed sigh away from locking your best mate in the cellar.”

__

Assisting Hermione to shrug off her long black trench coat, Theo made her spin in a circle so he could take in her frumpy appearance. He tsked, but his brown eyes still sparkled behind a mischievous expression.

__

“Don’t rule out the cellar just yet,” she quipped as she smoothed her wild hair. “Your husband promised aged firewhiskey and—”

__

“Of course, and no mention of The Cur Who Shall Not Be Named.” Theo pretended to zip his lips and ushered Hermione into their kitchen.

__

The space screamed Theodore Nott. Shiny metal appliances and black surfaces lined the massive area. Industrial, modern—Hermione wouldn’t be caught dead with a kitchen like it, but somehow it worked for him. And he looked so at home in it, moving from counter to counter, chopping and simmering, cooking in such a fluid way that left Hermione transfixed.

__

“Where’s your husband, by the way?” Hermione asked as she lifted herself onto a tall stool at their bar table where Theo laid a spread of vegetables and crackers.

__

“Had an errand to run,” he answered evasively, turning from Hermione to check the roast in the oven. “Should be back any moment. Your whiskey, my dear.”

__

Theo set a large tumbler on a marbled coaster in front of her. Immediately, her fingers curled around it and she brought it to her lips. “This is delicious, Theo. Thank you.” She took another deep drink, nearly finishing the amber liquid in two gulps. “What’s the errand then?”

__

Surveying her for a moment without a word, Theo’s eyes dipped from her eyes to the empty glass before he filled it up with noticeably less whiskey than before. “He mentioned my genius plan for your re-election, yes?” Hermione nodded. “This plan requires a particular presence, which also requires a delicate reminder of favors owed and…”

__

“Theo.”

__

Hermione’s heart thudded against her sternum. Flashes of memories from before Ron, before the Ministry, when she was young and stupid and making distinctly horrible choices in her eighth year of Hogwarts, flickered through her mind. She inhaled sharply.

__

“Please tell me your idea doesn’t involve  _ him,” _ she demanded in a whisper before downing the whiskey. A delicious burn slid from her gullet to gut and began to impart a delightful haze to her high strung mind. Theo said nothing, which in turn said  _ everything _ . “Theodore Nott, your husband promised me it would only be us for dinner, and—”

__

Theo held up a finger, halting her mid-rant. “It will only be myself and my handsome partner for dinner.” Hermione visibly sagged and held out her glass for more whiskey, which Theo begrudgingly filled. “However,  _ after _ dinner, we’ll have a special guest.”

__

She opened her mouth and Theo jumped in waving a flippant hand.

__

“ _ If _ you agree,” he said quickly. “And if you don’t, then we’ll simply send Harry back on his third errand of the day—you know how much he loves running around on my behalf.” A tick of a smirk. Merlin, they were so in love it was sickening. “I promise you, though, you’re going to want to hear what he has to say.”

__

“I don’t think I do,” she whispered, shoving down the memories that threaten to assault her. It was hard enough to box up her marriage to Ron into a tidy, steel locker in her mind. But her ability to compartmentalize was not infallible. Something was bound to slip out. And, Merlin, there were things she absolutely did not want to slip out.

__

“Buuuuuut…” Theo arched a perfectly slender, winged brow as he sprinkled fresh herbs on his roast potatoes. “You’ll trust your best friend of a quarter of a century and his gorgeous, incredibly smart and well-intentioned husband?”

__

Swirling the contents of her glass, Hermione kept her eyes on the deep amber color. Was there enough whiskey on the planet for her to face him again? Hell, she hadn’t been in the same room with that wizard for nearly twenty years. Barely exchanged any type of correspondence in a decade—save for a handful of missives that were hopefully burned to ash now. Their only link had been Brutus, who interestingly enough seemed to hate this wizard with a passion she’d never witnessed from an owl.

__

Knowing it was a bad idea, but charging forward regardless, Hermione winced as she tossed back a large sip of whiskey and slammed the glass on its coaster. “Yes, okay. I’ll listen. But, Theo, I’m telling you, if this turns into a bloody nightmare because he can’t leave well enough alone, I’ll—”

__

Theo placed a hand over his heart. The sparrow tattoo on his wrist fluttered its wings. “Inquisitorial Squad’s honor, love.”

__

But there was something in the way he smiled that roused suspicion in Hermione’s gut.

__

__

* * *

__

  
  


__

Harry dabbed his red serviette on the corner of his mouth as Hermione demolished the sweet glazed carrots on her plate. Theo was grabbing the dessert he’d baked special for the occasion of “Hermione finally coming out… of her office”—he thought the joke was adorable, bless him. Hermione laughed where appropriate. But mostly, she stayed fairly quiet and answered in limited sentences.

__

“So.” Harry tossed his serviette over his mostly-empty plate and rested his elbows on the table. “You’ve been leering at me, waiting for me to break my promise through the whole meal,” he laughed and tilted his head as Theo sidled up beside him with a sweet, spicy scented skillet filled with what looked like berries. “And now that dinner’s over and my promise is fulfilled, let’s chat about how you’re going to be re-elected as Minister of Magic.”

__

Hermione’s fork clattered on her plate. “Bold of you to assume I’m seeking re-election, Potter.” Though she said it lightly, an undercurrent of challenge dappled her tone. “Or that it’s possible for me to win after the last year of shite press and a—what did the Prophet call it in that article, oh yes— _ doomed marriage that predicted a doomed Ministry _ .”

__

“We both know that’s bollocks.” He leveled a dark look at her as Theo shoveled dessert onto small plates and passed one to each of them. “You’ve done things for the wizarding world that no Minister has ever been able to accomplish. Loads of citizens are demanding a second term.”

__

“They’re not quite as loud as the ones who are calling for my resignation,” she whispered, fingering the fifth tumbler of whiskey Theo had filled for her. There was a delightful buzz in her head, a heady disconnect between her thoughts and her words. It felt good not having to care so sodding much about what came out her mouth. “I promised I would listen, and I will. But honestly, Harry, if the people want me gone, why wouldn’t I listen to them?”

__

“Because the wizards calling for your dismissal are miserable blood purists who can’t see past their own prejudice.” Surprisingly, it wasn’t Harry, but Theo’s heated voice that answered. He fell into his seat between the two of them and stabbed his dessert. “The Wizengamot is ancient, too many old Pureblood men thinking they have a claim on what it means to be a wizard—or witch. You scare them, and whoever comes next needs to continue scaring them or we’ll revert back to where we were when Voldemort rose to power.”

__

An old scar, the one that guaranteed she’d never have children, throbbed at the mention of Voldemort. It reminded her of the constant sticking point between her and Ron, and how they may have never quite moved past it. Another of the various things the press saw fit to comment on, to call into question her fitness as Minister, and a woman and wife, because she’d never been able to conceive.

__

She swallowed over a thick knot in her throat, shoving those memories away. “That’s why I’ve appointed strategic partners to the seats, and ended the lines of succession,” she said throatily, her words growing more impassioned as she went. “It’s why my department heads are diverse. I’ve eradicated an entire generation of pureblood supremacists from the chambers.”

__

When she finally brought her gaze to Theo’s, he was smiling knowingly and it ticked her off.

__

“Don’t look at me like that,” she groused, abandoning the illusion that she’d been interested in dessert. She drank instead. “Whoever takes over next can do the same things I’ve just said.”

__

“Have you happened to hear who is running against you?” Harry asked between bites.

__

She hadn’t. During her No Press Embargo, she’d missed the announcement. A distinct prickling sensation raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Who?” she demanded.

__

Harry and Theo exchanged a glance, one that gave Hermione an immediate sense of foreboding. It sank into her stomach like lead. Theo shrugged, breaking whatever silent argument they’d been having.

__

It was Harry that answered, vitriol in his low voice. “Cormac McLaggen.”

__

All the blood drained from Hermione’s face as she slapped her palm against the table. Of course it was bloody Cormac McLaggen; the git had been lobbying hard against all the progressive things Hermione had championed since her election—centaur rights, laws to protect the house elves, harsher punishment for former Death Eaters and Pureblood supremacists, implementing formal pre-Hogwarts education, and mandatory Muggle Studies for all children. He said she was taking away the voice of the majority of witches and wizards who held the Statute of Secrecy dear.

__

The dickhead.

__

Hermione nearly shrieked. If there was one person she wanted to beat in the race for Minister of Magic, it was Cormac McLaggen. And judging by the looks Theo and Harry were giving her, they knew she wouldn’t be able to stand down from this fight. Straightening her shoulders, Hermione lifted her chin, tossed back the last of her whiskey, and—with a bit of a slurry mess of words—agreed to whatever plan they had.

__

“Fine. What’s your plan to win re-election?”

__

The whoosh of a fire from somewhere in the distance sent chills up Hermione’s spine. She wetted her lips, eyes darting between the nervous looks passing between Harry and Theo. Whiskey. She needed more of it, stat.

__

The clack of dragonhide shoes on the hardwood floors sent jolts of panic racing through her body. There was no way she was turning to face him. She couldn’t. No way. The deep clearing of a throat tested her resolve. She would  _ not _ turn around.

__

She would  _ not _ look into his eyes for the first time in Merlin knew how long. Fire raced to her cheeks, heating her chest and neck along the way.

__

Draco Malfoy’s baritone voice slithered from the frayed curls wildly amassed around her head all the way down to her stocking-covered toes. “It’s come to my attention that you may require the services of Malfoy, Inc.”

__

Still, Hermione sat with her back to him refusing to turn. She lifted a finger and tapped it against her empty glass. Theo made haste to give her a refill, while Harry shook his head, ceasing only when Hermione narrowed her heavy-lidded eyes at him.

__

“Draco,” Harry said, a warm welcoming timbre as he stood from his seat. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice, mate. We weren’t sure when she’d… agree.”

__

She heard their hands clasp as if they were old friends. Though, she supposed they were and that just made everything all the more complicated.

__

“Grief is a bastard, Potter.” Draco’s voice, even after all these years, still shot  _ feelings _ through her. “One never knows how one will respond until one is caught in its cold grasp. Isn’t that right, Granger-Weasley?”

__

She wasn’t prepared for the familiarity or the way he’d hit the nail so spectacularly on its head, so she reinforced the steel box in her mind. And hoped to Merlin that the alcohol creating a disconnecting buzz in her mind would let her get through this meeting with some self respect.

__

The numbness in her legs abated, so Hermione forced herself to stand and took a steadying breath. She turned and anything she’d been about to say or shout or rant died as a dry lump swelled in her throat.

__

There, holding a large bottle of wine that was dwarfed by his hands, was a man whose existence had been intricately tied to her own for nearly two years after the Battle of Hogwarts. Still as handsome as ever.

__

And despite the fact they’d both aged twenty years, that dreamboat smirk still flirted with the corner of his lips.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot begin to thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and/or leaving comments on this story. You guys make the world go 'round. <3


	3. Secrets

_ You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness  
Like resignation to the end, always the end  
So when we found that we could not make sense  
Well you said that we would still be friends  
But I'll admit that I was glad it was over  
**Somebody That I Used to Know, Gotye**_

  
  


The years had been kind to Draco Malfoy.

Though his eyes shone just as bright and grey as ever, the dusting of crinkles at their corners added a touch of wisdom. His body was just as long, just as lithe. But, much like Theo, he’d taken to decorating himself with inky artwork. Hermione had been there for the first, and several subsequent tattoos; she still had the reminder of that first night on her hip. Draco’s stood out like a beacon on his pale, uncovered forearm.

What used to be the Dark Mark was now magically concealed and covered with an eagle owl in flight against a shining full moon. Clouds rolled over it, but as he’d told her all those years ago, “the clouds will eventually clear and the light from the moon will return.” She’d likely never given him enough credit—he could have been a Ravenclaw, for all the philosophical debates they’d engaged in.

He had several new pieces etched into his visible skin. As Hermione choked back a request to see them closer, she finally met his eyes and found them dancing in her direction. Lifting his sharp jaw, he flipped the wine bottle in his hand and smiled.

“Hermione.”

Gods, her name on his lips did silly things to her insides.

This was precisely why she’d refused to unpack his existence through the years.

Wearing suspenders over a neatly pressed shirt, slacks still sporting the clean crease, and just enough stubble on his face to be considered professional, Draco’s posture was one of suave casualness. As if his very nature was one of ease, rather than of the raging fires she’d known in Hogwarts.

She meant to greet him in the same light tone he’d used with her, but instead she choked around his name.

Bless Theo’s cotton socks, he’d pressed a full glass into her hand and steadied her with a warm hand on the small of her back. “Perhaps we’ll retire to the living room? The dinner table is not the place to discuss work or politics.”

“Too right,” Harry agreed, far too cheerful for Hermione’s liking. He turned beside Draco and gestured through the archway leading to their living room. “Shall we?”

Hermione sat as far away as she could from Draco. Though her body was relaxed—praise be to Theodore Nott’s stock of liquor—waiting for her muscles to knot themselves along her back kept her sitting on edge.

Harry and Theo were side by side on their sofa, pressed against one another. Theo’s hand lay on Harry’s thigh, fingers curled into it possessively. Even now, their attraction to one another hadn’t waned through the years. She wondered how they did it, how they kept it fresh and alive. Of course, she knew better than to ask. She’d heard enough of their bedroom antics to haunt her sleep for several decades.

Draco laid his arm along the mantle of the roaring fireplace. His body turned towards her, flames casting his imposing shadow across the room. Loosening the knot of his tie, he watched as Hermione fidgeted, tugging on the edge of her skirt to cover her shaky knees.

“I’m not sure what Theo and Harry have told you,” he started, tongue just as sharp as she remembered. “My line of work, as you know, is to handle high profile clients, provide them the best media, and ensure a polished and marketable reputation. This typically follows some type of social gaffe, or perhaps if someone requires a footprint where there is none.”

Hermione understood. He was a PR expert. He managed talent. Closing her eyes, a flood of guilt sloshed through the astringent haze in her mind. Had she fallen so low as Minister to need someone to come and clean up her mess? For a fleeting moment, the cages in her mind rattled; anger at her husband for all he’d left her began to flicker through her thoughts.

Unfair. It was bloody unfair that he’d be remembered as a hero, and she’d be the less-than-desirable wife who couldn’t provide him with children. She wanted to shout ‘bollocks’ into the room, but her audience would ignore it. So, she lifted her chin and defiantly challenged Malfoy to continue—if he valued his testicles, that was.

And he did continue, tossing a sly wink in her direction.

“You are beloved by the society as a whole.” He turned, fully facing her, and shoved his hands into his pockets. The magical tattoos on his arms danced along his skin. “However, as Harry explained today, there are a lot of things hovering over your reputation that could hurt your re-election. Add to this, your husband—I  _ am _ sorry to hear of his passing, by the way—was also quite revered. When McLaggen digs, he’s going to find some fairly damning information against your person.”

“And that’s where you come in,” she supplied quietly.

He ducked his chin. “That’s where I come in.”

“And me,” Theo added, somehow, she reckoned, sensing Hermione’s discomfort.

“You know I would,” Harry chimed in, eyes fixed on her with a sheepish smile. “But as the Head of the Auror Department, I’m disallowed political affiliations.”

She afforded Harry a smile; he’d do far more behind the scenes, even if he was disallowed. That’s just how friendship worked for the Golden Trio all these years. “Thank you, Harry.”

The other two men scoffed and she heard the blatant implication— _ what are we, scaled newts? _ Hermione waved them off and sipped from her glass. Now in a calming envelop of inebriation, her inhibitions certainly lower than they had been when she’d stepped through the Floo a few hours ago.

“Wonderful,” Draco said, though his tone bordered on the exaggerated annoyance he’d been prone to since his birth. “As you have the voice of the people behind you, I expect we’ll just need to get ahead of whatever McLaggen will dig up. In order to do so, we’ll need to meet and detail a list of potential issues you may face—don’t look at me like that, you swot. There’s not a political candidate in history who doesn’t have skeletons in their closet.”

Running her index finger over the lip of her glass, Hermione considered Draco. She pinched her lips, unable to reconcile the near-hateful boy she’d known for so many years with the poised man before her now. So much had changed. Even in the two years they’d… well, he’d changed, and that’s what mattered now.

She swallowed, her throat looser under the effects of the alcohol. “The things I tell you will remain private.” It was meant as a command, but somehow came out more like an uncertain question.

“As much as McLaggen’s team of unethical miscreants will allow,” he said, affirming with a nod. “And trust me, Hermione. His team will uncover every aspect of your life that’s unsavory and they’ll flaunt it in front of the people proudly.”

Her palms began to sweat. “Unsavory,” she repeated the word and allowed it to roll around her tongue. It tasted bitter and horrifying.

Draco’s long index finger caught her eye as it tapped against the center of his chest. A move that went unnoticed by the loving couple sitting opposite her. Nostrils flaring, Hermione stomped out the flames of remembrance Draco’s gesture dredged up.

Of broom closets. Quidditch pitches. Prefects bathrooms. A phone box in central London. Night time owl exchanges which would put the filthiest romance novels to shame.

She gritted her teeth, lifting her chin. “Right. So, how do we begin this… quest to save my name before it’s shite?”

At this, Draco’s lips parted with a sparkling smile. “Starting Monday, you and I are going to be spending an awful lot of time together.”

“Oh bollocks.” It slipped from her before she could stop it, earning a round of smothered chuckles from everyone in the room. Enjoying the laughter—the first she’d heard in months—Hermione leveled Draco with what she hoped was a serious look, but fell short due to the involuntary quirk of her lips.

A quirk that dropped as Draco procured a stack of yellowing parchment as if from nowhere, stalked to where she sat, and dropped them on her lap. Glaring back at her was a boldface headline that read,  **Minister Granger-Weasley: The Decline of Greatness.**

The knot which took up residence in her shoulder throbbed. “Rubbish,” she whispered, fingering the photograph moving beneath the headline.

In the photo, she stood at Ron’s funeral, draped in traditional black robes. Far away from the family and friends in attendance. Her face impassive, eyes dark and bruised from lack of sleep. There was no hope to be found in the version of herself staring at the ground where they were lowering her husband’s coffin. She looked as if she’d died right along with him.

Hermione ground her molars and looked at Draco through her long eyelashes. The striking difference between them carved tense silence in the room. Even Theo and Harry seemed to be holding their breath. Whereas Hermione’s anger rose from deep in her belly, Draco appeared to be steadfast and certain. He pointed a long, slender finger to the stack of papers. His words dripped slowly like molasses through a sieve.

“Your homework this weekend,” he said. “Every bit of negative press you’ve received in the past two years. Read them, memorize them, and be prepared to be scrutinized on Monday.”

“Scrutinized?” Hermione’s nose twitched at the word. “I’m not signing up to defend myself against you for how the press has chosen to criticize my grief.”

Draco glanced over to Theo and Harry for a moment, sharing a look Hermione couldn’t figure out, then shrugged his shoulders. “Then you won’t win the re-election, and I’m not going to waste my time.”

Not even waiting for her to respond, Draco turned and thanked their hosts for their time, and strode towards the front door with purposeful steps. Harry caught her eye across the room and raised his brows. Hermione crossed her arms. Settled back into the chair. Hands clenching around the stiff parchment stack on her lap.

She watched Draco as he shrugged on his long black cloak, popped the collar high until it skimmed his hairline, and twisted the doorknob until a faint  _ click _ echoed through the otherwise silent room.

The thought of being studied by Draco, having his full attention tuned into every wrong decision, every questionable action she’d made, was unbearable. To be skewered and roasted and judged by him of all people—it was unnerving. More frightening, in fact, than whatever she would find in the sea of papers he’d tasked her with reviewing.

In her muddled mind, she pictured the horrible things Draco would say to her if he discovered what a sham she was. That he might breathe a sigh of relief to find out what a terrible wife she’d been. And she imagined he’d give up on her after realizing that she’s no better as Minister of Magic than she was a wife.

It was from those thoughts a fire kindled. A desire to prove him wrong.

Hermione held up a hand as the door to Potter Cottage opened and Draco took one step into the nippy spring night. 

“Wait,” she whispered, loud enough to give him pause.

Turning his cheek over his shoulder, Draco glanced at her with a stoic expression. His fingers were curled and white-knuckled around the doorknob.

She swallowed and forced herself to speak. “I’ll do it, alright?” Lifting the papers, she felt the weight of a thousand critics in the palm of her hand. “I’ll see you Monday at the Minister’s Mansion. Number 10 And—”

“I know where you live.”

And with that, he stepped out into the night and closed the door behind him.

Hermione flicked her gaze to the couple across from her; one held a sheepish expression on his face, and the other a knowing, proud smirk. She ignored the whiskey on the table beside her, stood from her seat, and cleared her throat.

“Guess I better get going. Lots of homework to do if I want to remain Minister of Magic.”

“Atta girl, love,” Theo said, standing to walk her to the Floo with his hand on her lower back. “If he gives you grief, you send Brutus to me and we’ll plot his demise, yeah?”

Finally, the tension broke as she laughed. Reaching up to give Theo a hug, Hermione agreed to send Brutus at the first sign of trouble. Harry lifted a hand as she caught his stare over Theo’s shoulder, waving goodbye.

“He’s been through Hell too, darling. Remember that when you want to throttle him on Monday.”

It only occurred to Hermione when she stepped into the massive and empty place she called home, that she had very little information about Draco’s life since Hogwarts. 

* * *

The weekend was long and full of rage.

Hermione sat on the long, damask-covered sofa in her living room, her feet underneath her butt, and read through the stack of articles Draco had provided her to review. It amazed her how close some of the reporters had got to the truth of her marriage. But then, others read like tabloids and sensationalism that made Hermione sick.

If Cormac was going to fight dirty, she wondered what chance she had to win. How could she possibly defend her sex life in a professional setting against a man?

Holding the offending article by its corner, she watched a stiff and conservative version of herself blink back at her. She looked lifeless. Unfulfilled. Prudish. And the caption above the photograph sent a wave of disgust through her stomach.

**Opinion Piece: Minister Granger-Weasley Has No Sex Appeal**

The article went on to detail all the traits Hermione possessed which contributed to her inability to conceive a child with Ron. None of the points took into account the wounds she’d sustained during the war. Instead, in painstaking detail, she read about her dwindling good looks, her long hours at the Ministry, an apparent lack of smiling in photographs, and—to her absolute revulsion—several snide comments hinting that she’d refused to engage in sexual activities due to her stuffy, moralistic principles.

As she sipped a drink, Hermione snorted. Despite being repugnant, the wizard who wrote the article was so far off the mark, he’d practically landed in another galaxy. Her sex life was not the problem. In fact—she laughed outright—if anything, she should have had an army of children given the frequent and voracious sex life she and Ron shared.

Hermione threw that particular newspaper into the pile she dubbed ‘Untrue’, then moved on to the next.

**The Minister’s Husband Sighted at Ambrosia Warbeck’s Vineyard**

She tossed it to the ‘True’ pile and gulped from her glass.

**Liberator Hermione Granger-Weasley: Caught With House Elf Entourage!**

_ Fuck _ .

It wasn’t at all what it appeared to be. In an attempt to free the Ministry’s unemployed—read: enslaved—house elves, Hermione had taken them on an educational field trip. It wasn’t her fault they kept trying to perform tasks as they walked through Diagon Alley.

“Un-fucking-true,” she snorted, tossing the paper away.

**Granger-Weasley is Hiding the Truth (Find out more about the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on page 4)**

Rubbish.

**The Minister Uncovered: “Hermione Granger-Weasley is a Secret Pureblood Agent,” says anonymous Ministry source.**

Wouldn’t that make her life infinitely easier? Pouring herself another tall glass, Hermione tossed that paper into the “Untrue” pile and carried on, becoming increasingly more amused by the headlines she read.

Until she stumbled across another article calling her character into question.

**Minister Granger-Weasley’s Secret Affair With Head of Magical Catastrophes.**

_ Hermione Granger-Weasley, hurt by her husband’s extramarital affair (confirmed by Rita Skeeter in a shocking expose last month), has been seen around town with none other than the Head of Magical Catastrophes, Marcus Flint. Sources close to the Flint family confirm the Minister has spent an abundance of time at the department head’s estate. A house elf who shall remain nameless confirmed the pair hid behind closed doors and requested not to be disturbed for a number of hours. There has been no statement from the Granger-Weasley administration, or the heartbroken husband whose life has indeed been upended by this shocking revelation. _

For a moment, Hermione considered setting the paper on fire. Instead, she pushed herself from the sofa and walked through the mansion with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.

At nearly midnight on Sunday, a gentle house elf called Binx used her magic to transport Hermione from a random hallway to her bed.

The night was not without dreams. A particular, recurring dream she’d found comfort in over the years. Hazy around the edges, Hogwarts loomed in the distance and Draco Malfoy stood at her back. His hands wound around her hips as he pulled her close, a stiff erection pressed against the cleft of her bottom.

He whispered things she longed to hear. Promised her things she wished were true.

And as he lowered her slowly to the ground, atop his silky, emerald cloak, Hermione wondered if this warmth, this desire, would last forever.

As with most things in her life, paradise ended. Her alarm blared early Monday morning, pulling her from the comfort of her dreams and forcing her into the nightmare of her life.

* * *

Monday evening came too quickly. Hermione stood in the middle of Number 10 And A Half, Downing Street half-naked as she scrambled between outfits for her first meeting with Draco. A skirt was too flirty, slacks too proper. She eventually settled on a sundress with a light cardigan overtop. No shoes, as the last time she’d worn shoes in the Minister’s Mansion, a house elf had cried for three days.

She vanished the clothes from the room and worked to find a place to sit that didn’t appear too eager with just enough distance between them to keep her mind from wandering to the past. Perhaps she’d put a spell on the room and create an invisible wall between them.

No, she could certainly control herself.

She wasn’t a randy teenager any longer.

Except… 

As he walked through her Floo, that reasoning shot out the window and left her with heat pooling in her belly. It was entirely inappropriate. Merlin knew she had enough on her plate to be getting on with. She didn’t need to add ‘lusting after a former…’ well, whatever he had been, to the mix. So, instead of tackling him to the ground as the haze of alcohol was encouraging her to do, Hermione sat demurely upon the sofa and crossed her legs.

Drink in hand, she lifted it to him in greeting.

“Evening, Minister—or, shall I call you ma’am?,” he asked her with an affluent accent rolling over his tongue and a playful shine in his eyes. 

“Oh, Merlin no,” Hermione laughed. “Honestly, that makes me feel ninety years old. Hermione is just as fine as it always has been, Draco.”

She hadn’t meant to purr his name, but she supposed it was a habit now.

Draco stared at her for a moment, the planes of his neck tightening before he acknowledged her with a terse nod of his head. “Hermione then.”

Watching him disrobe felt scandalous. He shucked off his cloak, then his suit jacket. Unbuttoned his cufflinks, peeled back the sleeves of his shirt one at a time and in such slow motion that Hermione was certain someone had cast some sort of time-slowing charm on her home. He loosened his tie and popped two buttons at the dip between his collarbones.

There was so much of him on display. His ink revealed proudly, tattoos she hadn’t noticed the night before. It seemed he was a proper wizard in dialect only—no one in the central London community would be caught dead with so much body art on display. Merlin knew Hermione went to great lengths to hide her own.

Toeing his shoes to the side of the Floo before walking onto her carpet, Draco draped his divested clothes over the back of a chair and stalked into the room. Instead of sitting beside her on the sofa, he settled into the chair across from her and kicked an ankle over his knee. 

“I assume you’ve read through the news clippings I provided, made notes, and organized them by least to most offensive?”

“No.”

He repeated the word slowly, as a disbelieving question. “No?” He rested his elbows on the arms of the high backed chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “Tsk, tsk, Minister—apologies,  _ Hermione _ —remember what happens to bad girls who don’t complete their homework.”

The world swam before her eyes as all the blood shot from her head to the apex of her thighs. She opened her mouth, to give him a verbal lashing or to argue, but instead she closed it and inhaled deeply. Watching the way his eyes flashed, flirty and every bit the Draco Malfoy she remembered from her youth.

“Only joking, of course,” he said, but the look he gave her was anything except playful; searching and beguiling.

And while there was relief coursing through her, unknotting the tension in her shoulders and settling her riotous stomach, Hermione couldn’t help but allow the memories to blossom. Of nights they’d sit against the parapets of the castle and scribble on parchment, furiously trying to finish homework due the next morning. The games they’d play, the wagers they’d make, the looks they’d share across the classroom when one of them would win a bet. And what followed; exploring each others’ bodies, experimenting with words and touches, warmth and the euphoria of utter satisfaction.

Jolted from her thoughts, Hermione cleared her throat and flicked her eyes anywhere except for Draco’s face. “Yes, well. I went through the articles as you asked, of course. There are more erroneous stories than there are true ones.”

“Good.” He seemed pleased with a twitch of his lips that almost turned into a smile. “Let’s start with what the punters got correct then.” Running a hand through his hair, Draco shook his head to settle it back into that messy-but-I-spent-hours-on-it coif. “Where are the articles?”

Hermione chewed her lip. She hadn’t quite considered that he’d ask to go through them one by one. Perhaps it would have been prudent to… not throw them into the fire. And watch them burn to cinders. And pour whiskey on top.

At her silence, Draco snorted. “What’ve you done?”

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione bristled. “What do you mean, what have I done? Why’d you say it like that?”

“Because I know that face.” His eyes drifted to the ceiling as if he were trying to find the right words. “It’s one of several faces I’ve memorized of yours. The one that says ‘Oh bollocks, I’ve fucked up.’”

Her fluttering heart skipped a beat. Sweat accumulated between the palm of her hand and the half-empty glass she clung to. Draco knew her mannerisms so well he could call her on them with startling accuracy. She wasn’t sure whether it unnerved her or endeared her. Though, she certainly knew the least problematic of the two. Squeamish and fidgeting under his watchful gaze, Hermione stalled by taking a drink and swallowing slowly.

The burn of the whiskey raced to her stomach and the instant warmth wrapped her in hazy comfort. She allowed herself to dwell in that moment.

“I’ve guessed right, haven’t I?” Draco guessed, proud of himself. “Have you tossed them in the bin? No, that’s not final enough for Hermione Granger, is it?” His tone turned colder, so she buried herself into the heat of her drink once more. “Vanished them? No reaction yet.”

Placing a finger to his lips, he tapped gently and scrutinized her expression.

Hermione’s chest rose and fell heavily. She wanted to tell him precisely what she’d done with the papers, but now she was so against him being right, there was no power on the earth that would have her confess to him. That, in her drunken haze the night before, she’d used a hot poker to ensure no bit of the yellowing parchment remained.

While Draco was caught up in his contemplative trance, it allowed her a chance to watch him in return. A dangerous choice, but one she’d greedily looked forward to since she knew he would be alone with her in the house.

Of course she found him attractive—who wouldn’t? But he was older now, wore a light and perfectly trimmed shadow of stubble along his jaw, and had the same lines of aging at the corners of his eyes that Hermione damned in the mirror every morning. His hair hadn’t thinned in the slightest, no receding hairline, no spots on his pristine skin.

It was infuriating that he should age gracefully, where she had drier skin and more lines on her face and that dumpy thing that happened to women around the middle—and worse, she hadn’t even had children to fatten her up.

Indignant at the mere sight of him, Hermione finished her drink, set her glass down, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Oh, fuck’s sake. What’ve I done?” Draco asked, completely exasperated as his hands clapped on his stupid expensive trousers.

“What do you mean, what’ve you done?” Her knuckles turned white as she fisted her hands. Honestly, he was maddening, sitting there amused and irritated. As if he hadn’t thrown off all her plans of—well, it shouldn’t matter that she hadn’t any plans, just that he was interrupting what could have been. “You were perfectly silent.” After a pause, she added, “as usual.”

“You’re upset with me because I’m quiet?” He chuckled, running a hand down his shirt as if to smooth it. As if it needed smoothing. Git. “No dice, Hermione. Tell me what I’ve done—and what you’ve done—so that we can move on and get to work.”

“You’re bossy,” she said, grumping as she settled further back onto the sofa. At his insistent, raised eyebrows, she sighed. “I burned the clippings.”

Silence followed her admission for just a beat. “Of course you did,” he deadpanned, though he seemed not to expect anything less. With a wandless summoning spell, he produced a stack of newspaper clippings and held them up for her to see. “There are some things in this life that will never change.”

Unwittingly, her lips twitched into a small sly smile. She shrugged her shoulders. “It was rubbish.”

“It’s the Daily Prophet. It’s meant to be rubbish.” Draco stood from the chair, lithe frame stalking towards her until he plonked himself down right beside her and tossed the papers into her lap much like he had done at Harry’s. “Now, what have I done to make you all stroppy?”

Hermione side eyed him, feeling the heat pool at her cheeks. “You’re not going to let it go until I tell you, are you?”

“‘Fraid not,” he said, clasping his hand together in his lap.

She turned to him, adjusting herself so she faced him head on. “You’ve aged well.”

More silence. It hung around for several long, agonizing moments, until Draco finally broke it with a throaty laugh. “You’re the most insufferable witch I have ever met, do you know that?”

The unbridled grin on her face hurt the back of her head with its sheer force. “You’ve told me once or twice, if I recall.”

Palpable memories barged into the stillness as they maintained eye contact. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck, as if a warning. She was letting her guard down. Feeling things that ought not be felt. Clearing her throat, Hermione broke the reverie and held up the papers between them.

“Right. Suppose we should get to work then, yes?”

Draco’s eyes dipped to the papers, but not before tracing the lines of her smile. “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

It was past eleven when she finally glanced at the clock on the mantle above her fireplace. Hermione and Draco laid on their stomachs, on the rough beige carpet in her living room with several piles of papers scattered in front of them. Draco sipped from a long stemmed wine glass, a dark red bougie vintage from within the Minister’s stash that the elves had found. Hermione, of course, carried on with her whiskey—wine had always given her headaches anyway.

Half the stack of papers had been untouched. Saved for another time, Draco had said.

As they moved articles back and forth from one pile to another, arguments would ensue. By the time midnight rolled around, Hermione was so fired up over Draco’s stupid counterarguments, she’d stood up to pace in front of the fire place with her hands on her hips. She’d only tripped a time or two. But, of course, Draco had laughed at her expense.

She glared at him, only to find him stretched out on his side, his head propped in his hand, his long leg bent at the knee. There wasn’t a time in memory she could recall seeing him so relaxed. Her eyes softened as she walked over to him and sat cross-legged just outside his space.

“How is it that I’ve become the uptight one of the two of us,” Hermione hedged, wrapping her hands around her crossed calves. “And you’ve managed to become the laid back one?”

Draco’s lips raised in a conspiratorial smile. His fingers traced invisible patterns in the carpet as he leaned closer to her. “Want to know a secret?” At her nod, he beckoned her closer by crooking his finger. His sweet breath skirted along her face as she ducked towards him. “I’m the same bastard I’ve always been and you’d do well to remember that.”

Hermione blinked once, twice, and scowled. “That’s your big secret? You’re still a spoiled, self-centered,  _ mean _ prat?” She chucked out a single, humorless huff of a laugh. “You and I both know there’s more to you than that. You have better secrets to tell than that.”

“Yes, well, what fun is having a secret if one is just going to blather on about it?” Hoisting himself up to his feet, Draco straightened his clothes and picked at the lint that wasn’t there. “We’ll carry on this weekend. I’d forgotten how irritable you are when you’ve been drinking.”

Ambling toward her Floo and grabbing his cloak and jacket from the chair, Draco paused to spare her a glance over his shoulder. “Next we meet, we won’t be drinking. Clean yourself up, Hermione. I’m not in the profession of babysitting drunk Ministers.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue as she pushed herself to her feet. Stumbling, she tore after him as he stepped into the Floo and dropped the powder into the grate. “You can’t just leave after saying—”

“Malfoy Incorporated.”

He disappeared as the fireplace was engulfed in emerald flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so appreciative of you all - thank you so much for taking the time to read this fic. <3


	4. An Opportunity

_ The broken clock is a comfort, it lets me sleep tonight  
Maybe it can stop tomorrow, from stealing all my time  
I am here still waiting, I still have my doubts  
I am damaged at best  
Like you've already figured out  
**Broken, Lifehouse**_

  
  


The raging hangover of Tuesday morning would be one for the history books. Somehow her hair had managed to grow at an exponential rate and looked more like a poodle who’d gone through a car wash and power dry than a head of human hair. Her head throbbed, stomach roiled, and even her hands were a bit shaky as she stumbled towards her apothecary cabinet.

Whoever the absolute legend had been who invented the curative Hangover Draught was getting a sodding Christmas card from her this year.

Her thoughts turned to Draco and the night before. Bits and pieces were missing, but one thing stuck out more than the rest; how he’d avoided the articles insinuating Ron had an affair. He focused instead on the small slights against her person. They argued about mundane things like her style of dress, the state of her hair, the elf entourage she’d amassed despite her best efforts to set them free.

If she’d managed to drive him away over all those little defamations against her character, then how fast would he run from her campaign when he realized the other articles had semblances of truth? That she wasn’t the good person she’d always presented to the public?

Months had passed—so much time—and still, she couldn’t reconcile who she’d always dreamed she’d be with who she’d ended up becoming.

Her racing thoughts ached for a drink, to numb it all and silence her mind.

But something Draco had said hovered over her like a shadow.

_ “Clean yourself up, Hermione. I’m not in the profession of babysitting drunk Ministers.” _

Perched on the lid of the toilet, Hermione put her head in her hands and sighed. Sure, she’d had a bit more to drink than normal the past year, but that was to be expected given the sharp turn her life had taken. Just a little something to take the edge off after a hard day. It was hardly her fault that every day seemed to be hard.

Groaning, Hermione massaged her temples while the potion worked its magic through her body. Slowly removing the toxins causing her stomach to riot and her head to pound. After several moments of peaceful silence, her hands stopped shaking. She stood from the toilet and splashed her face with cold water.

Bringing her gaze to her reflection, she frowned. Not only was her hair in complete disarray, but it was matted and puffier on one side. Gone was the shine it’d had before. Now it was just… lifeless. Much like the rest of her.

When had that happened? Truly, she hadn’t noticed. When she was going through the various Daily Prophet articles, she’d paid more attention to the headlines than the photos attached to them. Except for the photograph of her beside Ron’s grave, where she’d looked properly wretched. But that was to be expected, wasn’t it?

Well, there was nothing for it—she’d have to go to work regardless of the voice in the back of her head warning her off it. For the first time in ages, she applied makeup to her face and tried to tame her hair with magic and pins. It would have to do.

Perhaps if she simply kept trying to go through the motions, one day it would feel natural again.

“Fake it ‘til you make it, Hermione,” she whispered fleetingly to her reflection as she strode from the loo and noxed the lights.

* * *

  
  


“Excuse me, Minister Granger-Weasley?” The hesitant voice of her young assistant, Hattie, filled Hermione’s office through the shoddy intercom system she’d set up after being elected Minister.

“Yes, Hattie?” Hermione scribbled away on a piece of legislation, crossing out purposefully exclusionary language. The old codgers in Magical Games and Sport thought they were so clever in trying to include speciest laws in their revised Quidditch rules. She didn’t have to be a Quidditch expert to know what their ignorant words meant for anyone that wanted to play the game who wasn’t also a wizard.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you. Says his name is Mister…” Hattie’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Hermione could hear another person speaking. Then silence before Hattie continued; Hermione heard the blush in her tone. “Wayne Kerr, ma’am.”

A laugh burst forth before Hermione could stop it. “Theodore Nott, stop harassing my assistant right this second. Hattie, dear, I apologize for Theo, though his chosen moniker is quite accurate, I assure you.”

She heard Hattie giggle as she buzzed Theo into her office. He opened the door magnanimously, arms outstretched with a wide grin on his face. “Ma’am!” Hermione glowered and Theo corrected himself quickly as they embraced. “Sorry, Minister. How are you, darling?”

“Fine. Things are fine,” she lied; things were always fine and there was no need for anyone to believe any different. Gesturing to the seat opposite her desk, Hermione sat and crossed her legs. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Theo?”

He was making that face Hermione knew meant his next words were being carefully chosen. “I was paid a visit by our temperamental PR virtuoso this morning.” The words settled between them as Hermione swallowed down her instinct to ask a thousand follow up questions. “He’s of the opinion—and my brilliant, if not a touch mad, husband agrees—that our fearless leader… er.”

It was unlike Theo to pussyfoot around what he wanted to say. As his sentence hung unfinished, Hermione’s shoulders tightened; the knot of tension throbbed with every silent beat that followed. Sighing, her eyes fluttered closed.

“Come on, Theo. Out with it.”

He scratched at the stubble on his face, considering her through narrowed eyes. “He seems to think you might use whiskey to sort out your feelings.”

“I’m sorry?” Pitching forward, Hermione scoffed and slammed her palms to her desk. “You’re telling me that Draco thinks I have a drinking problem?” Disbelief. A bit of guilt. It all swirls inside of her in a coalescence of confusion. “That’s ridiculous! So I had a few drinks last night while we were working. That doesn’t mean that I’m some sort of… like some… it’s not a problem, alright?”

Her eyes betrayed her as they traveled to the bottom locked drawer of her desk, wherein laid a single tumbler and a half-empty bottle of the Minister’s finest aged whiskey. But it didn’t mean anything. It had been a difficult year, most especially the last six months. She shouldn’t be expected to be utterly perfect—it was just something to take the edge off some nights. Most nights. It didn’t mean anything.

As Hermione spiralled, Theo leaned forward and placed a hand over hers. “Alright. It wasn’t an accusation, just a general concern for your wellbeing. We know how hard recent events have been and no one would blame you for coping the way you need.” He patted her hand, tossing her a tentative smile and pulling a small sealed envelope from within his cloak. “He asked that I send this along. Something about your owls not getting on.”

She smiled at the memory. Brutus and Julius certainly lived up to their namesakes. Plucking the letter from Theo’s hand, Hermione stuffed it underneath a stack of papers and folded her arms in front of her. “I appreciate that you’re all worried about me, but I promise I’m fine. Draco was very clear that our work going forward requires that I don’t have… a nightcap… so, while the concern is lovely of you, we have already constructed boundaries around our professional relationship.”

“ _ Professional _ relationship, is it?”

“Professional and nothing more,” she affirmed with a sharp nod of her head. “I find it strange, how I know very little about Draco’s life after all this time. Has he always been a handler, or is this a new venture of his father’s company?”

Theo’s eyebrows climbed high as a little curve twisted his lips into a smile Hermione didn’t like at all. “I do believe this is the first time you’ve inquired about Draco’s life in quite some time. Since after he married Astoria, I reckon.” He pinned her with a look—she didn’t like that, either—and continued in a peculiar tone. “Though Lucius owns Malfoy Inc. it began making the transition from Lucius’ control to Draco’s just before Astoria was claimed by her malediction two years ago.”

“I read about her passing,” Hermione whispered, feeling a guilty pang in her chest. She hadn’t reached out to Draco, couldn’t bring herself to. It felt wrong somehow.

“Their arrangement was less… ah, amorous than it was a lucrative business venture between the old Pureblood lineages.” His eyes only tightened for a moment, but she caught it before it was gone. Marrying Harry had initially cost Theo quite a bit, but they’d overcome it and were thriving without the inheritance Theo was stricken from receiving. “Lucius required Draco to produce a Pureblood heir, obviously. Astoria provided it. They lived harmoniously, each having their lives outside the marital home—Astoria with other men, and Draco by curating Malfoy Inc. into a company he would be proud to pass onto his heir.” Theo shrugged. “Not only does his company handle relations in the wizarding public, but he’s a silent benefactor in the progressive fight against Pureblood supremacy.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “He  _ what _ ?” Shaking her head, a high pitched laugh escaped her. “No, that’s not possible. I would know if—”

“While Lucius is still alive and owner of the company,  _ no one _ should know. Least of which is the Minister of Magic.” Theo tapped his fingers against her desk. “Lucius spent the majority of his life, and company finances, plucking the strings of every high ranking official residing in places of power across the UK. I daresay a small number of your cabinet and Wizengamot seats are paid for out of the Malfoy coffers.”

“That’s not…” But the words died in her throat. Of course it was possible—probably even. And then, to her horror, a thought occurred to her. “Is Cormac being funded by Lucius Malfoy?”

Theo pointed a long finger at her and clicked his tongue. “Got it in one, Minister. By taking you on as a special project, Draco is actively undermining his father’s campaign to get the do-gooder Muggleborn out of office.”

“Oh Merlin, no.” Hermione brought a hand to her mouth. How the hell could she be so bloody ignorant to the darkness descending around her Ministry?

“Oh Merlin,  _ yes _ . Listen, Hermione,” Theo stood slowly and stuffed his hands into his cloak pockets. “I know he’s an insufferable prat on his best days, but well, you have that in common, so maybe you could be conscientious while working with him and understand that this is far more important to him than just beating McLaggen, alright?”

She didn’t answer him, just nodded her head with her fingers still pressed over her mouth. Mind moving a kilometer a minute, she watched Theo leave her office and make an errant joke to her assistant, Hattie. Her door swung closed and left Hermione in deafening silence.

Itching to reach for her whiskey, Hermione instead grabbed the envelope Theo had provided to her and unsealed the silver M emblazoned in wax. Anticipation squirmed in her belly as she unfurled the thick parchment paper with familiar, elegant scrawlings across its surface.

_ Minister, _

_ My sources have confirmed a certain floppy-haired idiot is on the hunt. Might I ask that you are seen further in the Ministry today? Shake a few hands. Ask about departmental concerns. Ignore the cameras. _

_ Draco Malfoy _

Cryptic, as always. Hermione scribbled a quick note back to Draco and called Brutus from his perch.

“To Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Inc., okay?” Brutus nipped at her finger affectionately. She opened her door so he could fly out, and called after him in afterthought. “Be nice, Brutus!”

He didn’t acknowledge her as he swooped out of sight.

* * *

Hermione did as Draco instructed and made her rounds in various departments within the Ministry. She shook hands, listened to concerns, and took notes with a Quick Quotes Quill about how she could better serve her Heads. Camera flashes went off around her, but she tried her best not to pay attention to them as they captured candid moments. It was easier as time passed, as she discovered that her Ministry was in need of so many things she’d ignored since Ron had died.

Guilt ate at her. She began thinking perhaps she shouldn’t continue to run the government. Clearly she’d missed so many things in her emotional absence. The need for new uniforms for the Aurors. Budgetary concerns for the educational department. Low staff within the various public relations offices. Poor Podgewick Crestwhistle in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office had run out of space to hold charmed muggle items. A particularly rambunctious toaster sat on the edge of his desk; it spit out insults at random intervals.

It was a relief to return to her office at the end of the day. The biggest surprise was Brutus perched in the tree she kept for him. Hooting merrily with a scroll attached to his outstretched leg.

“Whatcha got, boy?” Hermione asked as she gently extracted the scroll. She sat down to unroll it and laughed at the hastily scribbled missive.

_ Granger. Good job today. Keep this bloody beast away from me; he drew blood. Draco. _

Sure enough, a dot of crimson punctuated his signature. Laughing, Hermione shoved his note into the top drawer of her desk.

* * *

The week passed in a blur as Hermione tasked herself to work harder than she had in a year. It became her mission to resolve all the outstanding issues she’d discovered thanks to Draco’s insistence that she spend time within the departments in the Ministry. She felt much more herself as she ran to and fro, scribbled drafts for budgetary requests, signed proposals that had sat in her in-tray for months. As the weekend approached, she began feeling like her old self, as if she was making a difference. A little difference, but a difference nonetheless.

On Friday afternoon, an ornery eagle owl fluttered into her office. His huge yellow eyes stared into the depths of her soul as he landed on the edge of her desk. Sniffing, he held his leg to her in a dainty fashion, puffing his chest as he waited for her to dislodge the note.

“Hello, Julius,” she greeted him kindly. But he wasn’t having any of it as his eyes flicked to the hooting mess of an owl in the corner tree who appeared more ruffle feathers than owl as his head spun round. “If you’d like to grab a treat—”

“Hoo, hoo, hoo,” Brutus went off; Hermione imagined he was using whatever the owl equivalent was to ‘fuck off’. “Hoo, hoo, hoo.”

Hermione glanced to Julius, an apology in the way her head tilted to the side. “Perhaps see Hattie on your way out and she’ll take care of you, okay?”

Julius nipped her finger—harder than necessary—and flew from her office. Not before lifting one wing and shaking it in Brutus’ direction.

“Brutus, you could  _ try _ to be nice to him, you know?” She unfurled the parchment, ignoring the very pointed hoot from her owl.

_ Hermione, _

_ Forgive me for sending Julius along. Theo expressly advised that he is not our personal owl. _

_ You and I had discussed getting together for more research regarding the press you’ve accumulated this past year. I know I mentioned this weekend, but had wondered if you would be amenable to meeting tonight? I understand if the short notice precludes your ability to work tonight, however my son will be visiting this weekend on a break from Hogwarts. If you are agreeable for tonight, please send a response with your preferred time. _

_ Draco. _

It was nearly seven and she’d spent the day rushing through the halls of the Ministry. She was exhausted and ready to go home to relax, perhaps have a single drink before bed—nothing more; she was trying to be conservative with her whiskey.

But he’d asked so nicely; not demanding as he once would have been. And Merlin, she knew he had a son, but still somehow the thought of Draco as a father did strange things to her insides. He had been so against the idea once upon a time, thinking his father would poison the child as he once had done to Draco. He’d very clearly changed his mind, and was now a single father.

The idea that the universe rarely granted the wishes of youth hit Hermione in the gut. All those years ago, she’d argued that a family was important to her, that she wanted to have a large family especially since her parents had so gracefully forgiven her trespasses, and Draco had listed out the various reasons why it was a terrible idea for him to procreate.

How things had changed, indeed.

Heart heavier than it had been all week, Hermione simply wrote him back with a time and Floo’d home to make herself presentable after a long day.

* * *

Draco arrived with a carrier bag filled with take-away.

Wearing a thick black sweater and charcoal colored trousers, he stalked through her Floo thanking her for her flexibility. They set up shop in the vast dining room, nestled on one end of the stupidly large oak table, as Hermione dug into the containers to find whatever it was that smelt so bloody good.

“I remember you saying you loved Thai… back then,” Draco told her as she rifled through the bags. “Never had it, but the owner assured me these were the most popular dishes.”

“You’re going to love it.” Hermione slid a container towards him with a smile. “So, what’s the agenda tonight? I must warn you, my patience for the media has dwindled this week. There are only so many times I can read about what a shit Minister I am before I start to believe it.”

Draco popped the lid on his food. “You’re not a shit Minister. Arguably, you’re the best the Ministry has seen in a generation, maybe longer.”

While he began to eat, Hermione stared at him. Entirely overcome with emotion as tears burned and built behind her eyelids. “You really think that? Really?”

Draco smiled, chewing before answering. “I do. Wouldn’t waste my time here if I didn’t. You’ve changed the bloody world, just like you set out to do, Hermione. Just because the loudest voices are the ones calling for your resignation doesn’t mean the majority aren’t thrilled to be part of a world that won’t toss them on their arses for simply existing.”

He’d said it so easily, the words flowing effortlessly from his lips, and then carried on eating. Not paying any attention to the way Hermione watched him with pink cheeks and the bursting of pride in her chest.

Up close, he looked so much the same as he always had. Impossibly long lashes kissing his high cheekbones with every blink. That sharp jaw she’d used to love to run her tongue over. Full, soft lips. But there were new things, too. Peeking out from underneath his sweater was a constellation tattoo of Orion.

She’d noticed before how well he’d aged, but that was through the haze of alcohol. Now, she was sharper, able to take in the spicy cologne that clung to him, the way his hair had darkened over the years, just enough to lose the near-platinum coloring. How she’d ever managed to walk away from him, Hermione would never know.

“It’s unnerving when you stare at me like that,” Draco said out the corner of his mouth as it tugged down. “You’re not contemplating my murder, are you?”

Snorting, Hermione shook her head and began to eat. Every few minutes, she’d steal a glance at him. Sometimes they’d catch eyes, leaving Hermione to blush and Draco’s lips to twitch. They ate in companionable silence until Hermione finally pushed her food away with a groan.

“I have got to stop,” she said, stabbing the remainder of her food with the fork. “We’ll never get any work done if I’m in a food coma the rest of the evening.”

Draco flicked his arm out, revealing an intricate silver and cobalt watch upon his ink-decorated wrist. Runes on his arm read ‘the fallen rise’.

“Half nine—you’re right, we should get started. Merlin, this food is delicious.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered as she chewed her lip. “Told you.”

Allowing the silence to settle for a beat, Draco watched her as he tugged his sweater over his watch again. “Right. Where should we…?”

“I’ve gathered all the articles in my office here.” Hermione stood from her seat and clapped her hands. Two grinning elves appeared with floppy ears and pristine wraps around their pudgy frames. “Oscar, Binx, could you please work your magic here? And be sure to try the food—it’s heaven.”

The elves saluted her, stepping over themselves with gratitude. “Yes, Miss Hermione. Thank you, ma’am. Binx will love to try your strange foods, miss. Thank you.”

Hermione placed a hand on Draco’s arm, a soft smile on her face. “Come on. If we don’t leave them to it, they’ll get feral.”

Spluttering, Draco stood and walked beside Hermione as she led them towards her office. “You have house elves in your service? Isn’t that… I don’t know, sacrilege to you?”

“It was,” she admitted, then chuckled. “Binx and I had a long chat my first night here last week. She went mad when I tried to free her, asked why I hated her so much, and requested that I have her mounted on the wall with the rest of her family if I was so intent to ruin her life.”

“Hermione Granger finally understands the minds of elves,” Draco muttered playfully.

“No. I don’t. I still believe it’s vile how wizards and witches have convinced an entire species that their only mission in life is to serve. It’s vile. But, it’s causing them more harm when I threaten to free them. So,” Hermione shrugged. “While allowing them to work around the mansion, I’ve also been educating them on freedom and free will. They’ll come around, I’m sure of it.”

Once they came to the door of her office, Hermione opened it and allowed Draco to cross the threshold before she shut the door behind herself. “The only place they’ve promised they won’t tend is this office. Somehow I think they still sneak in here, but I don’t know how to broach the subject to call them liars.”

They shared a laugh as Draco crossed the room. He took a seat on the long sofa opposite her fireplace. “Wizards’ greatest mistake was believing house elves wouldn’t become smarter than their heads of family.” He ran a hand through his hair and patted the space beside him. “Grab those articles and let’s get started.”

Time passed slowly as they plucked one article at a time from the stack they hadn’t gone through earlier in the week. Hermione found herself wincing as Draco forced her to study the photos, read the headlines aloud. He kept a list in a journal; articles he’d have to spin the other direction, and those he’d have to bury.

“This one,” Draco said as he shoved a thick paper at her.

With her arm resting over the back of the sofa, Hermione plucked the paper from his hand and stared at the headline. Her stomach rolled, seeing a familiar beaming face surrounded by too-long red hair. At his side, Ambrosia Warbeck: bombshell French blonde with her arm pressed into Ron’s. So close, so familiar.

It set Hermione’s teeth on edge. Her fingers itched to wrap around a cool bottle. Eyes darting to the hidden stash, she breathed heavily through her nose and tried to shove down the sudden need clawing inside of her.

“So it’s true?” Draco whispered, abandoning the journal and quill as he tossed them onto the nearby coffee table. “Weasley  _ actually _ had an affair?”

Her molars ground together as she swallowed, wincing at the rawness in her throat. Nostrils flaring, she flicked her eyes over the headline and accompanying photo, letting the smaller print of the article dig into the titanium armor she’d constructed so carefully.

“Yes,” she forced out. She offered nothing more.

Draco’s eyes darkened. His mouth twitched, as if he were at war with what to say. Finally, after a long stretch of nothing, he loosed a deep breath. “He’s a wanker.”

It was the last thing she expected. Especially not when she’d been battling that same conclusion for the past year—harder to think it after he’d died suddenly. And with that thought, her face fell. Armor properly dented, she sniffed back the looming tears.

“Yes, well. Harder to prove now, I suppose. Harder to care. Harder to make it matter. Harder not to come off as a scathing widow hellbent on destroying her perfectly lovely husband’s reputation.” She spit the last few words, then sighed. “That was inappropriate, I’m sorry.”

Familiar warmth covered her hand. Glancing at it, she nearly stopped breathing at the sight she found. Draco’s soft, massive hand resting over hers, his thumb running a gentle path along the side of her wrist.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said softly. She scoffed and he held her tighter. “Everything you’ve sacrificed all these years—” his eyes were wide, and she knew the exact thing to which he referred, which stabbed at her heart, “and he showed his gratitude like this? How long was it happening?”

It was hard to concentrate with the feel of his skin against hers. Sending sparks skittering along her arm, raising goosebumps along her skin. “Um, two years, I think? Could have been longer, but I can’t prove it, of course. It doesn’t matter now, though.”

“You’ve been grieving the end of your relationship far longer than anyone knows.” The sofa dipped as Draco scooted closer to her. His body heat rolled off him, fortifying her resolve not to cry. “That matters, Hermione. You may never get to give him a good telling off as you should, but it matters that the public know the truth. Your strength. Your ability to overcome.”

“Are you asking me to use my husband’s infidelity as a way to garner public sympathy?” The idea disgusted her; she couldn’t help the reflection of it on her face.

“I’m simply asking that you allow me to highlight your strength of character.” His hand climbed her arm, then back down again. “We’ll forgo it, if you insist. But it would be a shame to let this opportunity go to waste.”

“An opportunity?”

“No press is bad press when it’s done right,” he said, slipping his fingers along the crease of her elbow. “And I promise to be tasteful, if you’ll allow me.”

Licking her bottom lip, Hermione stared into Draco’s eyes. She found no malice there, nothing that would alert her to an ulterior motive. Instead, he seemed to want to help her. Delicately. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t tried to force it. He was putting the choice in her hands, allowing her to decide whether she could handle the fallout. Hesitantly, Hermione nodded and brought her hand overtop of his.

“Alright,” she agreed, still unsure it was the right thing to do. “But if this backfires, if I’m attacked for it—”

Flipping her hand over so his was on top, Draco ran a finger down the long crease at the center of her palm. “I promise nothing I have printed will result in ill will toward you.”

“Right. Well then, I suppose we should move on?” Hermione slowly pulled her hand away from his. The loss of his warmth hit her hard, making her ache to take his hand again. She resisted. “What’s next?”

Draco grimaced, dropping his gaze from hers to the stack of papers in his lap. “Maybe we should call it for the night? You’ve already opened up quite a large wound, and I—”

Tearing the paper from his lap, Hermione brought it up. Glaring back at her with bold typeface was the headline regarding her alleged affair with Marcus Flint. She let her head fall back against the sofa and groaned a petulant and exhausted noise.

“Is it true?”

She’d barely heard the question. So muted; the whisper of a breath. Raising her head slowly, she found Draco’s eyes on her again. Curious. Studying. Guarded, as if the answer could cause him pain.

The question hung between them. Hermione wasn’t sure how to answer, not without admitting that she’d given into a weakness, an impulse; that she’d been so hurt, so lost, she’d sought something—anything—that would staunch the flow of agony Ron’s affair had started. And, while she hadn’t slept with Marcus, she hadn’t been entirely innocent in his company, either.

Yet another facet of the aftermath of Ron’s death she couldn’t reconcile.

There were too many secrets she was keeping. So, she decided on the truth.

“No,” she whispered, just as low. Draco’s whole body relaxed visibly, shoulders loosening. “Marcus and I never slept together.” Taking a deep breath, Hermione’s eyes snapped to the fireplace. “But, we did share…  _ a moment _ . I stopped it almost immediately after it happened and we haven’t been alone in a room since.”

“A moment?” he repeated, though his true question wasn’t so easily disguised.

Bringing her eyes back to him, she steeled her voice and tried not to waver. “The last kiss I had before my husband died was with Marcus Flint, not my husband.” She pushed herself up from the sofa and turned away from Draco, feeling the moisture thicken in the corners of her eyes. “I think we should call it a night. We can finish up another day.”

She felt him before she heard him, looming tall and broad just behind her.

“Julius will be along after Scorpius returns to school. If you think we won’t discuss this next time, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Electricity zinged along her spinal column as she straightened her posture and glanced into the window behind her desk. “I think we’ve exhausted the topic.”

His head ducked to her ear, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. She said nothing. Just held her breath. His voice was gruff and low against the shell of her ear. “You drive me so fucking mad, Granger.”

Then his presence was gone, leaving her colder.

After she heard the whoosh of the Floo down the hallway, Hermione finally broke into her stash of whiskey and lost herself to memories that had been locked away long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eee, thank you so much for the love on this little story. I'm having such a blast writing it - I'm so glad you're enjoying reading. I appreciate you all so much! My plan is to stick to Monday postings, but I'm throwing this one to you a couple of days early because I know I'll be away from the internet on Monday for a post-NaNo meltdown. <3


	5. Their Secret

_Come on now, try and understand  
The way I feel under your command  
Take my hand, as the sun descends  
They can't hurt you now  
Can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now  
**Because the Night, 10,000 Maniacs**_

  
  


**_November 1999 - Hogwarts 8th Year_ **

Hermione had been back at the school for just under ten weeks, and she was exhausted. An entire class block had been dedicated to cleaning up the remnants of the final battle. Blood, sweat, and tears went into reconstruction. And through it all, each of the eighth year students who returned had learned to work together once more—bridges were built between all the houses, most especially those between Slytherin and the others. It had been Neville who led by example, hand clasped with Malfoy’s that first day.

Still, there was so much to sort through. Not only the battle and destroyed areas of the school, but psychological damage haunted a vast majority of the class.

The parapets had become a refuge since her return. When she couldn’t sleep, she’d sneak up the tower, through a hidden entrance behind a Victorian Era portrait, and sit with her back pressed against the cold, rough cement. There was no noise, no chance of overhearing the unavoidable whispers that somehow always spoke her name, no prying eyes of the professors, no expectations. She liked being alone, liked being able to breathe without constant attention.

And she liked that there, watching the stars cross the unending velvet sky, she was simply Hermione Granger: student.

On this particular night, Hermione was avoiding a party in the Gryffindor common room. She’d apologized to Ginny, who supplied her with a flask filled with something that smelled like rubbing alcohol, and promised to make her excuses for her. For an hour, she sipped from the flask and practiced steady breathing. The chilly nightly breeze couldn’t penetrate the warmth the contents of the flask provided.

It was strange, then, when a tense presence joined her. Hermione had the distinct impression of ice sliding along her spine, straightening it.

There was a shuffle of material, then the sound of a flint grinding. The scent of earth and tobacco wafted through the air. Hermione wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. They’d all chosen their own methods of coping, after all. Draco’s heavily cloaked body slid down the wall until he sat beside her with his back to the wall. His long legs stretched in front of him as he stole a drag from his cigarette.

“‘Lo, Granger.” Rings of smoke floated through the air. “Don’t fancy a party tonight?”

Holding her flask aloft, she shook it with a wan smile. “Did you know, Malfoy? I’m busy studying in the library and couldn’t possibly join the others in their debauchery because of my moral high ground.”

It earned her a snorted chuckle. “How is it after all these years, your Gryffindor pals don’t know how much of a snake you are?”

“How is it after all these years, your Slytherin mates don’t know how much of a lion  _ you _ are?” she countered, eyebrows raised as she took another pull of liquor.

“Hardly.” A steady stream of smoke rushed from his lips. He seemed to realize something and pinched the butt of the cigarette between his teeth as he patted down his cloak and withdrew a soft pack, extending it out to her. “Would a lion attempt to lure you into a habit-forming vice? No, too noble, aren’t you?”

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Hermione lifted her flask and gulped down as much of the drink as she could while Draco watched. Amused, if the twitch of his lips was anything to go by. She winced around the sting, but carried on until nothing remained. As the fire settled in her belly and haze spread slowly around her, Hermione smirked at him and popped the flask away.

“That’s your problem, Malfoy,” she said finally, pushing the pack of cigarettes away and ignoring the zing of electricity as their fingers touched. “You assume Gryffindors need luring.”

His chest jumped with the force of a solitary, huffed laugh. “Touché.” Stubbing out the smoke, Draco vanished the end with his wand and folded his hands over his lap, tilting his head toward her empty flask. “Don’t suppose I should assume your house is also overrun with compulsive sharers then?”

“Sorry,” she said with a shrug, tucking the flask into her pocket. “If I’d known you’d leave your den of darkness and suffering, I would have brought extra.”

She decided then that the sound of Draco Malfoy laughing was something she’d like to seek out more often. It sounded so foreign at first, and as the night went on became more comforting. The sound was rough, deep, as if pulled straight from the depths of his lungs against his will.

The higher the moon climbed in the sky, the colder the night became. Even with the alcohol to take the edge off and numbing her to the worst of the chill, Hermione’s fingers felt like ice as she fisted them inside the sleeves of her sweater. Draco had offered his cloak, but she shook her head. How could she possibly explain to him that the cold was familiar, comforting even? That nights on the run last year were filled with snow and freezing breezes; that nothing felt quite as good as the feeling of being cold and getting warmer?

When she couldn’t stand it any longer, Hermione lifted herself from the floor and stretched out. “I ought to head to the dorms before Ginny sends a search party,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself to conserve the scant bit of body heat she had. “Thanks for… well, just sitting here, I guess.” With a little wave, she left him as he scrambled to his feet and vanished another cigarette butt. “I’ll see you around, Malfoy.” 

“Later, Granger,” he muttered as she began her descent down the tower stairs.

If anyone had told her that returning to Hogwarts would result in a strange almost-friendship with Malfoy, Hermione would have called them mad. And yet, there she was, feeling the dregs of hatred for him slip away into the recesses of her mind. What she found in him was refreshing—he wasn’t perfect, but he was clearly trying.

Just like her.

* * *

  
  


**_Number 10 And a Half, Downing Street, London — Present_ **

Sundays were remarkably quiet. There were no tribunals, no urgent, last-minute legislations, no expectations for her to show up at some ceremony she’d only briefly brushed up on before a magnanimous speech. It was just busy work, things she’d put off in order to complete the pressing matters everyone demanded she prioritize first.

As Hermione scribbled down the plan for what could potentially be her last six months as Minister of Magic, the Wizarding Wireless Network played in the background. She allowed the music to carry her mind away as she worked furiously to set the tone for the next administration—even if it would, by some miracle, be her own.

She had been close to solving the Werewolf Rights Act issues, which kept getting hung up by the Wizengamot, when someone tapped on the door. Sighing, Hermione circled the word ‘Wolfsbane’ and set her quill down.

“Yes?” she called to the door, and smiled as Binx entered with a silver tray holding a beige envelope. “Hello, Binx. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Minister.” Binx bowed deeply, her floppy ears glancing off the carpeted floor. “Miss should be aware that First Owl Brutus is being very angry today. Swiped at poor Binx’s nose with his talon.”

Frowning, Hermione stood from her desk and met Binx halfway through the room. “Oh, Binx, are you alright? Will you allow me to heal you?”

“Miss is kind,” the elf answered with a toothy smile. “Binx is fine, but the owl who is bringing your mail is… not, miss.”

_ Julius _ , Hermione thought with a roll of her eyes to the ceiling. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she plucked the envelope from the tray. “Thank you, Binx. Could you please send both owls to me? I believe a stern talking to is in order.”

“Right away, Minister!” Binx squeaked, turning on her heel and closing the office door behind her.

Hermione unsealed the envelope, which felt hot in her hands, and unfolded the missive from Draco. It was scrawled in eloquent script, as if he’d taken care to get the words written down just right. Except the post-script, which appeared hastily scratched as an afterthought. 

_ Minister, _

_ I wonder if I might be bold enough to request your time this evening to continue our review of The Daily Prophet’s slander against your person. Unsure if you have received today’s Sunday Spread, but I fear we must pick up pace if we’re to outsmart your opposition. If you are amenable to meeting tonight, please confirm via return owl. I will open my wards to you; Scorpius is still home from Hogwarts, so I’m unable to travel to you. _

_ Regards, _

_ D.M. _

_ P.S. Do hope Julian isn’t too much of a curse on your afternoon. He demanded this job and knocked several owls off their perches in order to get it. _

With a snorted laugh, Hermione refolded the letter and scurried around her desk to write back to Draco. Her weekends were so void of activity, even if she wanted to turn him down, she wouldn’t have a good excuse.

_ Will see you tonight at 8pm. - H.G-W. _

As she rolled the short note into a cylinder, Binx stepped into her office once again with two extremely agitated-looking owls flying just over her shoulders. Hermione’s gaze moved from Binx to Brutus, whose chest was puffed out. He hooted at her, something that sounded like an excuse, and jerked his head back and forth quickly. Whatever he was trying to communicate quickly fled Hermione’s mind as her eyes fell on Julius.

Somehow his gigantic yellow eyes grew larger than she’d ever seen on an owl before. His wings flapped in wide, quick strokes as he began to squawk and duck up and down in the air. Hermione stared at him, chewing on her lip. He was missing several feathers from the top of his head—a shiny, pink bald spot staring back at her—and his chest heaved erratically.

Whereas Brutus was making excuses with his smarmy hooting, Julius was angrily flinging accusations with his odd, turbulent flying.

“Brutus!” Hermione rushed forward, but instead of wrangling her owl, she wrapped her hands around Julius gently. Pecking at her fingers and drawing blood, Julius continued to flap and squawk as Hermione sat him upon her desk and lowered herself into her seat. “Julius, what did this—this  _ Brute _ do to you?”

The owl danced along her desk. Jumping and spinning, pointing a wing at Brutus as he flapped and hooted. Hermione snuck a glance at Brutus, who wound his head around in a circle, clearly bored by the other owl’s dramatics.

“Brutus, did you pluck Julius’ feathers from his head?” she asked shrewdly, eyes narrowed at her owl, who lunged back and forth as if to say ‘no’. Liar. “I don’t know why you two can’t get along, but the fracas between you must come to an end. Now.”

Brutus landed upon a stack of papers and ruffled his feathers.

Hermione and Binx met eyes across the room, and she got the distinct impression the elf was trying to keep a beaming smile off her face. Swearing under her breath, Hermione massaged her temples.

“Binx, could you please find Draco Malfoy’s Floo title?”

“Right away, Miss!”

She turned back to the owls, who looked as though they were having a silent argument and immediately went still under her gaze. “As for you two. I’m sending this reply with a Ministry owl, and you two are coming with me to discuss with Draco what we ought to do about the pair of you. Until then, you can each take a corner of my office and keep your wings to yourselves.”

Guilty, shame-filled hoots met her words.

* * *

Stepping through the Floo into Draco’s home, Hermione carried two golden cages which each held a rather miffed looking owl. Draco met her at the Floo, took stock of the two owls, pinched his lips and led her rather silently through his home until they reached a living room. For some reason she’d expected the space to be decadent, but instead it was minimalist—black on white contemporary fabrics and decoration from ceiling to floor. There was a surprising lack of photographs; only a solitary photo of him and who Hermione presumed to be his son between two large bookshelves.

Draco took the cages from her and, after a stern warning about proper owl behavior, took the owls into another room. When he returned, his lips were pressed into a pale, tight line.

“They’ve been at each other’s beaks all day,” Hermione said lightly, taking a seat on a soft, black sofa opposite the beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows. Night was descending, hazy purple clouds melting against the brilliant orange glow of the sunset. Tucking her chaotic hair behind her ears, she crossed her ankles. “Some things never change.”

“Indeed.” Draco’s lips curled up. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice again. I feel it’s imperative to move up our timeline, which means I’ll need your candor.”

“You always have it,” Hermione answered, a notch forming between her brows. “I haven’t had a chance to review The Prophet’s article.” Lie. She couldn’t bring herself to look if it was so bad, Draco required her presence immediately. “How bad was it?”

They stared at one another for several moments, neither speaking. Draco stood with his hands in his pockets, gaze stuck to the floor between them. Then it struck her—he wasn’t in his formalwear. Just a Henley with the sleeves bunched at the elbows and black jeans. He looked, dare she think it, relatively normal and less a mogul of a PR agency. The thought brought an unwitting smile to her face.

A smile that dropped as he finally spoke.

“McLaggen’s sleazy mates got ahold of an old photo,” he said, pinching the inside of his cheek between his teeth.

Stomach plummeting, Hermione fidgeted with the sleeves of her jumper. “Which old photo?”

Withdrawing his wand from his pocket, Draco gave it a flick and the paper appeared on the glass coffee table in front of Hermione. She reached for it, waves of nausea rolling within her. A sepia-colored photo stared back at her. It was a familiar image, of a familiar night, with a familiar Slytherin.

Swallowing hard, Hermione glanced up at Draco through moistened lashes. “Do they know?”

“If they don’t know yet, they’re getting closer,” he murmured. Then, to drive the anxiety-coated knife further in her gut, he added, “I told you back then it was a bad idea to keep it a secret.”

“What would you have had me do, then? No one would have understood it—dammit, Draco,  _ we _ barely understood it.” Hermione let loose a sharp huff as she watched the photograph roll through a long moment. One she’d treasured and tried to forget all at the same time.

* * *

**_December 1999 — Hogwarts Eighth Year_ **

Most students had gone home for the holiday, but those who remained decided to throw a party for Yule. There was no getting out of it this time; Hermione was begged to attend by Parvati, who promised it would be an invite-only affair. She should have known word would spread to all the seventh and eighth year students. By midnight, the dorm was packed with so many students, even the portraits were making snide comments about the commotion.

But Parvati did prevail in obtaining the drinks for the evening. So, Hermione hid away in a quiet alcove and enjoyed a beverage as she watched her friends and classmates play silly games and dance around to the latest hits on the WWN.

Dennis Creevey ran around with his brother’s camera, snapping photos. Somehow he’d managed to gain entrance to the exclusive party despite that he was a sixth year. During the previous year, he’d grown close to Luna and Neville as they’d rebelled against the Death Eater regime. It was likely no one questioned his attendance, especially as he was still raw from losing his brother.

House unity was an unpredictable consequence of the war. Evidently, those students who’d been at Hogwarts bonded despite their houses, and those friendships carried on far past the reign of Lord Voldemort. And, it was realizations like that which eased some of the tension in Hermione’s chest as she watched Dennis asking groups of students to pose and smile.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing drew Hermione’s attention away from the rambunctious little Gryffindor. “Hello. Mind if I join you?”

Theodore Nott was a tall, gangly Slytherin with a sharp jaw and wide, brown eyes shadowed by a strong brow and perfectly swoopy brown hair. His smile was easy. Eyes sparkling as he lifted his frosted glass in greeting and slid his free hand into the pocket of his trousers.

“No, er…” Hermione scooted herself over, allowing him to take the leftover space on her little shelf. “Please, have a seat. Hello, Theodore.”

“Theo, if you don’t mind.” He smiled over the lip of his glass, amusement creasing his cheeks. “Theodore makes me sound like a golden retriever.”

“Theo then.” Nodding more to herself, committing his preferred name to memory, Hermione allowed her eyes to drift back to the antics of the others. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play Spin the Butterbeer or Seven Minutes Behind The Lady and the Unicorn Tapestry?”

He laughed, a light and airy sound the quite liked. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll play if you do.”

Hermione shook her head, curls swinging wildly over her shoulders. “No, I’m quite alright. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid. I prefer watching to participating.”

“Interesting kink, Granger.” Upon seeing her radiant blush and the indignant spluttering, Theo chuckled. “C’mon—I have no interest in kissing anyone here, either, but for the sake of camaraderie and all that. Plus, if it lands on Finnegan, I’ll explode the bottle and we’ll do a dash out the portrait hole, yeah?”

Gnawing at the corner of her lip, Hermione surveyed Theo who stared resolutely at the group of partying students. The rush of alcohol from her stomach to her brain was creating a delightful lowering of her inhibitions, but not quite so much as to make her want to duck behind the tapestry with one of her classmates and get felt up. But then, hadn’t she promised Ron that she’d have experiences away from him? Was this the type of experience he’d wanted her to have?

“Alright,” Hermione agreed, fortifying her nerves by gulping down the rest of her drink. “But one sign of having to spend seven minutes with Seamus and you create a diversion to get me out.”

“Deal.” Standing from their little nook, Theo held his hand out and hoisted Hermione beside him. As they made their way over to the hoots and hollers of their classmates, Theo craned his neck. “Oi Malfoy, let’s play something filthy with the other houses.”

Hermione’s eyes locked with his across the room. Cheeks blazing red, her lips twitched toward a small smile as she planted herself on the ground beside Parvati and Neville. She watched as Draco and Theo dropped into a spot across from them with their legs pulled into a criss-cross so their knees were touching. Draco leaned over and whispered something in Theo’s ear, earning him a devilish grin in response that made Hermione’s stomach flip.

The circle comprised of nearly thirty students, various houses and genders. Some caught up in raucous laughter, others swaying in time to the music. Parvati reclaimed the attention by holding an empty butterbeer bottle in the air. Droplets dripped onto Hermione’s bare arm.

“Right you lot, here’s how it goes,” she announced merrily, ignoring the remnants of beer dropping onto her. “The first few rounds, we’ll do a simple kiss. Then we’ll graduate to snogging. And then—”

A seventh year Ravenclaw boy wolf-whistled. “Seven minutes behind the tapestry!”

“Yes, precisely! Now!” She crawled to the center of the circle with a predatory smirk on her face. “I’ll go first, and we’ll move clockwise around the circle until we’ve all had a go.”

As the bottle spun—for a ridiculous, taunting amount of time, Hermione thought—the crowd simmered down, watching with rapt attention. All except Malfoy, whose darkened eyes held hers. When the bottle slowed and finally landed on a square-jawed Hufflepuff seventh year, the students erupted in a chorus of ‘whoop’ as he crossed the circle to place his lips chastely against Parvati’s.

Everyone cheered, save for Hermione. Stomach slick with dread, she waited until Parvati was back at her side before loosing a nervous breath.

“You’re up, Hermione!” Parvati exclaimed, shoving her shoulder forward until Hermione surrendered herself to the haze of her alcohol and shifted forward until her hand was wrapped around the bottle.

Trying to ignore the taunts of the crowd, the hoots and bellows that tightened a knot in her shoulder, Hermione spun the bottle and sat back on her ankles as it went round and round and round. The feel of Malfoy’s gaze sent heat from her chest to her forehead.

The bottle came to a slow stop in front of Neville and Hermione visibly relaxed. He came toward her with his sweet, awkward smile and planted a sweet kiss to her lips. While Neville was a great friend, the kiss didn’t make her feel anything more than relief that it had been him and not someone else from the circle. She couldn’t get away from the center of the circle fast enough, and practically crawled into herself as her classmates shouted lewd comments as Neville moved to spin the bottle.

A round of laughs rippled through the room as the bottle landed on none other than Theo, whose grin appeared wolfish as he approached Neville. The room cheered as Theo wrapped his hand around the back of Neville’s head and kissed him closed-mouth and for several seconds. As they broke apart, Neville’s face was flushed, sweat accumulating at his forehead, and Theo was perfectly pleased with himself, earning a slap to the ribs by Malfoy.

They continued around the circle in the same fashion. By the time the bottle came back around to Parvati, Hermione had only kissed Neville and the square-jawed Hufflepuff who’d kissed Parvati. Everyone took a bio break, grabbed more drink, or chatted until the circle was filled in again. Once they were all arranged again, Parvati whistled and called everyone’s attention.

“Okay, this round, we’re going to snog!” Parvati said, waving the bottle in the air. “The only rule is that you  _ must _ use tongue. If you choose not to kiss the person the bottle lands on, you have to take a shot instead.”

Merlin, they were going to be hungover all weekend. Surely, they’d choose to take a shot more often than not, right? Hermione watched as shots were poured and set in front of everyone. Luckily, she was past the point of tasting her alcohol, so whatever they’d set in front of her would do. Would she be a buzzkill if she took a shot any time the bottle landed on her? There wasn’t anyone she particularly wanted to snog.

It was at that thought, Hermione felt pin pricks at the nape of her neck. A familiar feeling of being watched. Without thought, she lifted her gaze to find Malfoy staring at her once more, his fingers resting on the sides of his thin shot glass, lips slightly curved.

The room erupted in cheers, but they were muted. Muffled under the heady weight of Malfoy’s eyes on hers. They held a challenge, but she wasn’t sure what it was—what did he want from her? She swallowed as Daphne Greengrass and Parvati snogged in the middle of the circle. Still, she kept staring. Wondering. Completely captivated by the shine of his near-silver irises.

“We’ll go counter-clockwise this time,” Parvati announced, gesturing for Seamus to spin the bottle next.

A part of Hermione relaxed. It was impossible to unclench all her muscles with that relentless attention from across the room. She tried to cheer when appropriate. Once, Blaise Zabini spun the bottle and it landed on her. They’d both taken a shot to get out of it and then shared a mutual laugh. It wasn’t that Blaise wasn’t good looking: he was tall, dark and handsome with a wicked smile and penchant for mischief. But, it was common knowledge he was head over heels for Luna.

“I don’t mind if you kiss,” Luna tried to tell them, her dreamy voice void of any hesitation.

Both Blaise and Hermione assured her it was no big deal that they hadn’t.

For some inexplicable reason, when Pansy Parkinson’s spin landed on Malfoy, Hermione held her breath and averted her gaze to the frayed cuff of her jeans. If there were ever two people made for each other, she’d always believed it was them. From her observations, though, they’d both changed so much over the past year, she wasn’t sure if that was true any longer. Neither were cruel, and where Malfoy was reserved, Pansy was outgoing. She’d weaved her way right into being Ginny’s friend.

A collective groan filled the room, forcing Hermione to look up to see what happened.

Draco’s chin lifted, his slender fingers wrapping gently around his shot glass as he tossed the contents into his mouth. His throat bobbed under the weight of his swallow, and for a single moment, heat flooded Hermione’s belly as if she’d been the one to take the shot.

Why hadn’t he wanted to snog Pansy? They’d dated, so surely they’d gone at least that far. But, as Hermione’s eyes snuck a glance at Pansy, she found her round face struggling to contain her disappointment. Snapping her attention back to Malfoy, her whole body burst into frantic energy as he slipped her a sly wink.

Oh, bugger. Reaching toward Parvati’s stash of drinks, she poured herself another two shots—one to take now and one just in case the bottle landed on her when it was Malfoy’s turn.

Which came startlingly quick. With his eyes fixed firmly on her, he spun the bottle and sat back with his hands resting on the top of his thighs. Hermione darted her stare to Theo, begging him to explode it and get her the hell out of there, but he merely laughed a silent laugh at her and carried on chanting nonsensical excitement with the rest of the crowd.

The bottle slowed. Painfully so. Its lip losing steam as it passed Pansy, the square-jawed Hufflepuff, two students Hermione couldn’t name, then Seamus, and crawled to its stop as it turned by Parvati and landed at a space between her and Hermione.

While Hermione sucked down whatever breath she could squeeze into lungs which felt like they were collapsing, Parvati jumped from her bum to her knees and clamored towards Malfoy. Horror rose in Hermione’s throat, nearly telling Parvati to stop, that this was  _ her _ kiss, before Hermione squashed it down and damn near hyperventilated.

It was only when Parvati huffed and crossed her arms beside Hermione that she realized Malfoy had chosen his shot rather than snogging her house mate. A flare of something stoked Hermione in a delicious way—she didn’t understand what it was or what it meant, but it pleased her that he’d chosen not to kiss Parvati. She’d have to examine it later; make a list or draw a diagram. Her feelings didn’t make sense.

Then she snorted. Leave it to Hermione to be delightfully buzzed from drink and to consider making lists and diagrams to dissect her feelings. Across the way, Draco ducked his head to Theo’s ear and whispered something she couldn’t make out. Whatever they were talking about resulted in a muted, furious sort of exchange before Theo spun the bottle for his turn.

There was no denying where it landed; aimed right at the spot Hermione’s calves were crossed. The group went mental, hollering and whooping for them to kiss. Hermione fingered her shot glass, but Theo’s voice rose above the crowd.

“Don’t you bloody dare, Granger.”

Parvati shoved her forward. Once she made it to Theo, his lips lifted as he reached for her chin and tilted her head up.

“This will drive him mad, I promise,” Theo whispered before pressing his lips to hers softly.

It was pleasant, kissing Theo. There was no heat, no erratic thump of her heart, but it also felt nice, something comfortable rather than racy. She allowed herself to sink into the kiss as his tongue brushed hers, then smiled as he pulled away with a twinkle in his eye.

“Now that we’ve snogged and are practically best mates, I have a favor to ask.” He dropped his hand from her face and booped her nose. “Introduce me to Harry Potter, formally?”

A fit of laughter poured from Hermione as she nodded. “I’ll ask him to come for the New Years Ball.”

“Brilliant.” Theo clapped his hands. “Right. Carry on with the debauchery!”

As Hermione backed up into her space beside Parvati, who was giggling like mad and trying to get details of her kiss, her gaze snagged on Draco’s. Dark and foreboding, he watched her carefully, as if he was taking stock of every minute breath she took.

She wondered if they were the only two present, the only two who might remember what happened that night. Everyone around them were merrily drunk, facing massive hangovers in the morning, but Hermione felt painstakingly sober, taking in each moment and every lingering look from the Slytherin across the circle.

“Hermione, why don’t we start the Seven Minutes game with your spin? Since you’ve already gotten your snog?” Parvati said, loud enough to earn a vote from the circle who all seemed to agree with her suggestion. Groaning, Hermione started to tell Parvati no, that maybe she should just call it a night, but she was cut off. “Okay, so everyone will get one spin. Once it lands on your person, you both go into the nook hidden by The Lady and the Unicorn tapestry. You get seven minutes—which will be timed by my wand—and no one can ask any questions about what happened there.  _ Ever _ ,” she added sternly. “And finally, to ensure everyone gets a turn, you’re out of the game once you have a go behind the tapestry.”

The only excuse Hermione had for agreeing to the ridiculous rules was that she was pleasantly uninhibited from the drinks she’d had. A fortifying comment from Theo across the room, about how it’d be over and done with before she knew it, sealed the deal as Hermione moved to the center of the circle.

Her hands tingled and a weight of something desperate sat behind her sternum. She allowed herself a quick glance to Malfoy, then watched as the bottle went round and round in maddeningly fast circles.

She should have known what would happen. The universe had never been unintentionally kind to her in the past, and so as the bottle settled facing Malfoy, she was both unsurprised and riddled with a flurry of sudden nerves. The noises being made—clearly into the idea that Hermione Granger might spend seven minutes alone with former arch nemesis Draco Malfoy—did nothing to settle her anxiety as Draco stood from the circle and walked to where she kneeled in its center.

“Granger.” Sticking his hand out, Malfoy helped hoist her from the ground and led her to the tapestry with a hand on the small of her back. He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “Don’t look back; it’ll rile them up.”

Doing as instructed, Hermione ignored the urge to glance back. She could feel two dozen pairs of eyes watching her, scrutinizing them. Malfoy tugged the tapestry away from the wall and Hermione read the French inscription on the stone. “Mon seul désir.”

The stone shimmered in the shape of a high-arched door. Ushering her forward, Malfoy allowed Hermione to enter first, then followed closely behind. After a moment, they were drenched in darkness, the only sounds their breath and Hermione’s fluttering heartbeat.

The nook was barely wide enough to fit them both comfortably. Their knees touched and Hermione had to crane her neck to look him in (what she hoped was) the eyes. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out the outline of his hair against the dark stone walls.

“Hello, Granger,” he whispered, warm breath fanning her face.

She squeaked a hello, desperately wishing her body would stop thrumming with energy so she could breathe. “We don’t have to—”

Malfoy closed the gap between them, placing his hands on the wall behind her. His chest to her chin. Hard body impossible to ignore as her hands moved instinctively to his waist. If she couldn’t breathe before, it would be safe to say she was suffocating now as a fire kindled in her belly.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he said. From this distance, she could make out his eyes and the way they dipped to her lips and back again. “Been wanting to for a while now.”

“Oh.” The word fell from her lips before she could filter it out. “For a while?”

“Mmhm.” Closer still, his spicy cologne invaded her senses, dizzying her beyond the fog of alcohol. “May I?”

Whether it was the alcohol—though she doubted it—or that she was genuinely curious what his lips would feel like against hers, she wasn’t completely sure. What she knew without a doubt was that when she whispered ‘yes’, there was no singular experience she’d had in her entire life that set her synapses alight with such fizzing pleasure as when Draco Malfoy captured her lips for the first time.

It lasted only a moment. But, in that moment, her mind went blank. Quieted for possibly the first time ever. Bloody brilliant, to hear only the cat calls outside their nook and no thoughts of dread ruining the moment as they detailed all the ways in which this could go wrong.

Planting her hands against Malfoy’s chest, Hermione curled her fingers into his jumper and yanked him back for another kiss. The noise he made in the back of his throat boosted her confidence, gave her nerve enough to run her tongue along the seam of his lips, and to deepen their kiss.

Malfoy’s hands wrapped in the roots of her hair, tilted her head even further back as he took control of the kiss and slipped his knee between her legs.

Taking the chance to explore his body, Hermione ran her hands over his chest and down to the hem of his jumper. She ran the tips of her fingernails over his abdomen, enjoying the way it jumped under her touch. Then up and up, exploring the muscles he’d kept hidden under robes, the warmth she’d never guess his body held.

Her cold palms rested on his bare hips, digging into the meat as she pulled him as close as she could possibly get him. It wasn’t close enough.

It was electric, kissing Malfoy. Their tongues moved against each other, a slow and deep rhythm that set her heart careening. There was no sense of time, no responsibilities hanging over her head, no loyalties to remember, no pressure or expectations. Snogging him was freeing in a way she’d never been before, and she never wanted it to end.

When the knocks came, Draco pulled his mouth away from hers and cursed. “Give us a bloody minute,” he grumbled, then pressed a light kiss to her lips. “Please tell me we’ll do that again soon?”

Hermione bit down on her cheek, trying to stifle the stupid grin threatening to take over her face. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“Good.” One of Malfoy’s fingers traced the curve of her jaw, eliciting a shiver down her spine. “Are we in agreement that we should keep this between us until we figure it out?”

Something uneasy squirmed inside her. A secret. She’d never really kept a secret before, not like this. Could she lie if her friends asked what happened between them? Was she prepared to face them if she told them the truth? Just until they figured it out—but no longer, she decided.

“Agreed,” she said, and as the word left her, a thrill zipped through her.

Not  _ a _ secret.  _ Their _ secret.

In a voice that was far too alluring, Malfoy whispered the French inscription on the wall. It shimmered, the door appeared, and he pulled the tapestry away. The room erupted in wolf-whistles and delighted shrieks. Hermione smoothed her tee shirt and flattened her lips, unable to keep the happiness off her face. With Malfoy’s hand at her lower back, she walked further into the room.

She was caught off guard as Dennis Creevey snapped a photo with a wide grin. “That’ll be a good one!” he said excitedly as he tore off through the common room.

She’d have to remember to get that photo from him.

* * *

**_Malfoy Residence — Present_ **

“Quite the night,” Draco whispered, tearing his gaze away from the newspaper to find her staring back at him.

Hermione’s parched throat pulsed around her words. “That night changed everything, didn’t it?” At his nod, she steadied herself with a calming breath. “How do we spin this with the  _ Prophet _ , then?”

“We have two choices: confirm or deny.” His darkening eyes settled on hers. “If we confirm the article as at least partially true, we’ll have to double down on Weasley’s affair to give you sympathy from your constituents. You’ll probably have to give some difficult interviews. There’s a possibility Skeeter will twist it to say Ron wasn’t faithful because of your… dalliances with me. Or, that it’s more likely you were having affairs as well—the Flint Scandal doesn’t look good for you.”

Hermione scoffed, shoving herself back into the sofa and narrowing her eyes. “And if we deny it?”

The planes of his throat constricted. “If we deny it, then we’ll need to ensure there’s no evidence of anything that came after.”

They stared at one another for a long beat of silence. What they’d had at Hogwarts was a secret. The only people who knew were Harry and Theo—and Ron. Lifting her chin, Hermione grimaced.

“We’ll deny it then.”

The pained shadow that flashed through Draco’s eyes would keep Hermione awake for the next three nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day early, but I've been dying to share this chapter for weeks and so... here we go! Thank you, endlessly, for giving this little project of mine your time - I'll never be able to find a word in any language to tell you how much it means to me that you're on this journey with me <3


	6. Haunting Realizations

_ Time can never mend  
The careless whispers of a good friend  
To the heart and mind  
Ignorance is kind  
There's no comfort in the truth  
Pain is all you'll find  
**Careless Whisper, Seether**_

  
  


**Minister of Magic Denies Secret Hogwarts Affair With Former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy** _ (Read more about the Minister’s plan to end ancestral seats on Hogwarts Board of Governors on page 12) _

Sipping tea over porridge, Hermione read the Wednesday morning headline and silently thanked the stars that she’d brought Malfoy Inc. on to help salvage her reputation. She was under no illusion that it wouldn’t take hard work on her end, of course. Between the very pointed way Draco had told her to stop drinking to the multiple, horrendous truths she was forced to reckon with in the short week she’d been working with him, Hermione was only getting more stressed as the days passed.

Compartmentalizing would only carry her so far. She knew that.

Tucking Ron away to the deepest parts of her mind. Ignoring her history with Draco out of fear he’d abandon her like she’d done to him all those years ago. Knowing Lucius Malfoy and Cormac McLaggen were actively trying to defame her. Lying to Harry and Theo about the habitual drinking she’d fallen into—when she’d had a bad day: drink, when she’d felt shame over kissing Marcus flint: drink, when guilt sat in her chest over the divorce papers she’d never absolved: drink, when the world seemed its darkest and she didn’t know how to find the light: drink.

Thinking about it that way, it was hard to ignore the voice in the back of her head shouting at her that there was a problem. That her friends—and Draco—were genuinely worried about her and for the right reasons.

But…

For so many years, there had always been a ‘but.’

She could rationalize why she chose a drink over other coping mechanisms. It’s just what she’d done after the war; when her friends had parties, they drank and it helped. The numbing effect kept her from jumping out of her own skin. And, back then, it had been in the name of fun—Merlin, when had it stopped being about fun?

Analyzing made her heart sink. So, rather than continue her spiralling thoughts, Hermione shoved her porridge out of the way, flipped The Daily Prophet over, and clenched her fingers into her palm to drown out the itch to add something alcoholic to her breakfast. She didn’t have to analyze where she’d gone wrong if she could simply keep it from going wrong again. And that was precisely the path Draco was laying out for her. If she could just go along with it.

It was decided then, as she stood from her dinette: no more drinking, no matter what.

She could do this.

How hard could it be?

* * *

Everything about her schedule was back to normal. Routine. Which meant that Wednesday mornings were reserved for Percy Weasley and his list of grievances as the Deputy Minister of Magic. And he has many, many grievances.

Where had she been?

Why hadn’t she taken his owls?

Had she believed it was acceptable to seal her Floo?

When was she going to visit mum and dad?

Was Ron truly having an affair?

Did she need to delegate more to him?

How much funding would cover the new curriculum for Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?

Truly, his list was never ending.

Percy sat across from her with a several-foot long scroll. Every few minutes, he’d give her  _ the look _ over his horned rimmed glasses, expecting answers and explanations. She had very few. At perhaps the fiftieth question, he tore off his glasses and tossed his parchment onto her desk.

“I know this year has been hard,” he said, pompous as ever with a puffed out chest. His blue eyes tracked hers. “But we’ve all had to grieve—and we’ve needed you. His wife. The person closest in the world to him.”

Wincing, Hermione clenched her fingers into the leather arms of her chair. “I know. I just… couldn’t face you all after everything. I did spend some time with Arthur and Molly, but it was too hard.”

“You’re family to all of us, Hermione. Always have been.” Softening, Percy tried for his awkward version of a smile, falling short. “And family takes care of each other. You just have to let us. No more of this hiding away lark.”

Hermione’s throat swelled. Truth was, she wasn’t sure how to reconcile the near-destruction of her marriage and Ron’s death with her relationship with his family and the guilt that wrecked her over it. She hadn’t thought to simply talk to the Weasley she was closest to who, despite being so logical he was practically a robot, always knew the right things to say to her.

“Thanks, Percy,” she’d managed to say after a long silence and a constant stare. “No more hiding, I promise.”

“Very well.” He straightened out his bow tie and popped his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “Mum wants to invite you to a secret birthday party for Harry. I’ll tell her you plan to attend, shall I?”

While Percy was her favorite Weasley, he was also the most intensely frustrating human being she’d ever met. Clever git. Gritting her teeth, Hermione nodded. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it. Have her owl me the details.”

Then he went back to his list. Only fifty more grievances to go.

* * *

  
  


Hermione was knee deep in signing the updated budget for the Auror Department when someone knocked on her door. Strange that somehow they’d managed to bypass Hattie, who guarded Hermione’s privacy like a precious jewel. Upon opening the door, her entire body clenched. Knots in her shoulders throbbing painfully.

A charming smile parted over sparkling, perfect teeth. “Hello, Minister. Nice to see that you’re opening your doors after—what was it, six months?”

Cormac McLaggen was every bit as gorgeous as he was insufferable. From the floppy hair atop his head to the expensive, glossy dragonhide shoes on his feet. He reeked of overconfidence and wealth, and strutted over the threshold and into her office as if he owned it. Well, he certainly  _ wanted _ to.

“Cormac.” She gritted her teeth, planting her hand firmly on her hips. “Nice to know you’ll see the inside of the Minister’s office even though you won’t win an election with money alone.”

“Aw, c’mon, Hermione. We can be friends, despite our situation.” His grin was effortless, yet his eyes shined with something akin to wickedness. It made her insides coil. “You’d be a whole lot prettier if you smiled once in a while, you know?”

It only served to deepen the scowl on her face. How often was she forced through such shitty observations like the one Cormac made? You should smile more, women with children are more relatable, too much cleavage, not enough cleavage, are those heels really sensible, where’s your husband and how does he feel having a powerful wife, who takes charge in the bedroom?

The attacks on her femininity never ceased.

Crossing her arms, Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

Cormac stepped closer to her. His self-importance radiated off him. “I didn’t receive a thank you card after sending my condolences for your husband,” he said, his finger reaching out to run along a wrinkle on the sleeve of her blouse. “Not very attractive, ignoring heartfelt sympathy as such.” He pretended to be wounded, placing a hand over his heart as he leaned forward slightly. “Then, I suppose, coming from your  _ background _ , perhaps one mustn’t presume the social etiquette of others, mustn’t one?”

“What do you want, Cormac?” Hermione repeated through her molars, ignoring the jibes at her blood status. “You may not be aware, but the job of Minister doesn’t allow much time for pointless blathering.”

Eyes flashing at her, Cormac straightened up and adjusted his tie. “Yes, quite,” he said, sniffing. “You’ll pardon my interruption of your extremely limited time, Minister. I just wanted to give you a preview of the Prophet’s upcoming front page.”

He produced a single sheet of parchment, where a bold headline stared back just as intensely as the man holding it.  **Confirmed: Ronald Weasley’s Long Affair With Ambrosia Warbeck.**

Ripping the paper from Cormac’s hands, tears welled behind Hermione’s eyes but she refused to let them fall. Ron and Ambrosia embraced, their lips cycling through chaste kisses and secretive smiles. She scrutinized the paper in silence as Cormac carried on in a casual tone.

“If it were me.” He walked around her office lazily with his hands folded behind his back. “And you had been my wife, there’s not a woman on the planet who could draw my attention away. Imagine having a simple shopkeeper so bored at home with the Minister of Magic that he’d seek out a warm bed somewhere else.” With a laugh, Cormac turned on her, drawing her gaze to his sparkling, cruel eyes. “The bed must have been frigid, don’t you think?”

Rage welled inside her as her fists crumpled the parchment. “Get the hell out of my office,” she whispered, fury dripping from every word.

He nodded, a twisted curl to his lips. Then he turned to the door, stopping to sniff the air in a dramatic display. “Say, Minister—does it smell like firewhiskey in here or do you use a candle to mimic that cinnamon scent?”

Blood running cold, Hermione began to storm to the door, only to watch him leave with a bounce in his step and a whistle on his lips. She slammed her door, kicking it with the heel of her foot for no other reason than to channel her anger somewhere.

There was another knock on her door, jolting Hermione. She swung it open, prepared to give Cormac a stern telling off, but her pointed finger fell to her side as Malfoy’s curt smile filled her vision. Grabbing Draco by his silver tie, she yanked him into her office and closed the door behind him.

They stood foot to foot for several minutes; her craning her neck to look into his eyes, and his eyes clouding with something like concern as they flicked around her face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low and commanding.

She forced a humorless laugh and then stormed away to grab the crumpled paper from the ground, shoving it into Draco’s chest. It didn’t take him long to flatten it out, or for the anger she’d felt like a tsunami in her gut to be reflected on his face.

“Fuck’s  _ sake _ ,” he spit. “Was that why McLaggen was here? To give this to you?”

With her lips pressed in a pale, thin line between her teeth, Hermione nodded. She couldn’t force the words from her tight throat. It was taking everything in her power not to cry. It hadn’t been like this the last time she ran for Minister—she had overwhelming support and no opposition that would stoop so low. Why now? Why when her life was falling apart?

Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and stalked to the door. Magic crackled around him as his hand closed around the brass knob. She couldn’t let him go after him, not with all the other rumors circling.

“Draco, don’t,” she pleaded quietly, holding a hand up as if that would stop him even if he’d been looking at her. “Beating him to a pulp won’t do any good.”

He spun around. Eyes smoldering. Lips tugging down. Planes of his neck blotched red. “Won’t do any good?” he repeated coldly. “I disagree. It would do me a world of good to feel my fist in that wanker’s pretty face.”

“They’re not—” she clenched her fingers into her palm and blinked, willing her emotions to check themselves. “They’re not reporting anything untrue. Ron did have an affair. With Ambrosia. They’re allowed to report the truth, despite what it feels like for me.”

Her voice cracked and Draco was across the room in a hastened second. Hands on her upper arms, he ducked down so he could catch her eyes. “It’s bullshit, Granger. The only people whose business it is that Weasley had an affair is yours, his, and that—Ambrosia’s,” he stopped himself from saying worse, evidenced by the way his lips had pursed between words. “And for that twat to come into your office—I want to hex him and so help me if you don’t give me one good reason, I’m—”

Not in one iteration of her imagination, when the world found out about Ron’s affair, did she ever think someone would defend  _ her _ . The worst possible scenario she’d always imagined was the world being sympathetic to Ron for having a busy, frumpy, barren wife. And Draco’s insistence that it was wrong, his protectiveness over her, finally broke the dam she’d constructed around her emotions sinec Cormac walked through the door.

As she burst into tears, Draco pulled her to his chest, wound one hand around her waist and smoothed her frizzy hair with the other.

* * *

**_New Years Eve, 1999-2000 — Hogwarts_ **

Headmistress McGonagall had gone to great lengths to approve a New Years Eve Ball for the entire school. While the school board had initially turned down the idea, Hermione was able to present facts citing the importance of an event that would bring the students even closer together. A gathering in the Great Hall, which still caused many in the school anxiety.

Working hard to decorate between Christmas and the new year, Hermione wrangled several helpers—some of whom had been surprising: Theo Nott, who’d come to be a good friend over the couple of weeks she’d gotten to know him, Luna Lovegood, who dragged her partner Blaise around wherever she went, and Padma Patil, who despite having a twin sister in Gryffindor, had seemed so cold towards other students until the recent party in the Gryffindor common room.

But, decorating wasn’t why Hermione was thrilled.

Harry and Ron had promised to attend, with hard-won approval from McGonagall. They’d gone to buy fancy robes, and they had agreed to attend together rather than trying to get dates. It saved her from having to explain Malfoy, for starters, but it also kept her from having to dig into painful conversations with Ron she wasn’t ready to have.

And she truly wasn’t ready to go there. Not yet.

Coming back for eighth year had given her quite a lot to think about, just as Ron had promised it would. Though, likely not in the way he’d intended.

She’d been having fun with Malfoy the past two weeks. Turned out, he was an excellent snog with warm, soft hands that liked to wander. They’d secretly met all over the castle, at all hours of the day and night, for nothing more than kissing and over-the-clothes groping. He never pushed her, and she never pushed him; their physical relationship simply moved forward as and when they felt comfortable taking it to the next level.

And he’d been surprisingly understanding that she’d wanted to spend the evening with Harry and Ron, instead of sneaking off with him while everyone else was occupied. The Draco Malfoy she’d known the year before was melting away, leaving this new, very intriguing Draco Malfoy in its wake.

A Draco Malfoy she couldn’t stop thinking about no matter how hard she tried.

On the night of New Years Eve, Harry arrived just outside the Great Hall, presumably they’d used the Headmistress’ Floo. Harry greeted her with his earnest Harry Potter grin, an awkward hand raised in a half wave, and tailored robes that showed off the stringy body he’d never really shown to anyone at Hogwarts, thanks to his cousin’s too-large hand-me-downs.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said, kissing both her cheeks as she approached. “You look lovely. I hope you didn’t waste all this effort just for me?”

She  _ had _ outdone herself. A silver dress with thin straps, a low halter, and straight hem to her ankles. It was something she’d picked out from one of Parvati’s catalogues, and with the girls’ help, she’d managed to tailor it to cling to the curves of her body. With slim silver heels and a curly updo, she kept it simple and elegant.

Beaming that he’d noticed, Hermione grabbed Harry’s hands. “Thanks. I can’t believe you made it.” She ducked around him, looking for his faithful redheaded companion. “Where’s Ron?”

With a grimace, Harry’s hands tightened over hers. “Er… oh, he’s such a git for leaving me to do this.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ron couldn’t make it tonight after all.”

Hermione’s face fell, shoulders slumping under the weight of being let down. Upon seeing her reaction, Harry forced his face into an overly bright and happy expression, curling their fingers together and squeezing gently.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, tugging on her hand. “We don’t need him to have a good time; we’ve proven that before.”

While it was true that she and Harry could enjoy their time together without Ron, and had led to a closer friendship between the two than ever before, she couldn’t help the pool of sadness that took up residence in her heart. Of course, she and Ron had decided to cool off their romance after the war. For the sake of discovering who they were outside of the trauma they’d experienced for several years. At Ron’s insistence. Hermione agreed. She knew he’d date other people, explore things without her; and she’d done the same. Did she have the right to feel disappointed when she’d been snogging Malfoy in the castle every night?

Ron choosing not to show up brought up far too many other things she wasn’t ready to examine quite yet.

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, Hermione squeezed Harry’s fingers. “You’re right. It’s his loss.”

She insisted to her devastated heart that they didn’t need Ron, that she could enjoy the night just as Harry had said. Eventually, she’d believe it.  _ Fake it ‘til you make it, Hermione _ , she repeated to herself as he led her into the Great Hall.

Seeing all her hard work—and that of her friends—stunned Hermione into silence. Without meaning to, she crushed Harry’s hand. The buzzing, frantic energy fizzled around her. It was as if their blueprint for the decorations had come to life; sparkling icicles dangled from the ceiling, the crisp blues and silvers glittering like diamonds along the walls, the floor like a glass lake as they stepped under the glow of a thousand floating candles.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry whispered in awe as he toed the glossy floor under their feet. “Did you do all of this?”

As she unstuck her throat with a heavy swallow, Hermione shook her head. “Not just me.” Then she remembered her promise to Theo weeks ago and tugged Harry forward towards the dapper looking Slytherin whose eyes were glimmering in her direction. “I have someone to introduce you to—he helped with most of the magic involved.”

“Er… is that Theodore Nott?” Harry asked, fidgeting with his robes as they approached.

“Shhh.”

Hermione elbowed him gently in the ribs as she ducked away from his side and embraced Theo as if they were old friends. Much like Harry had done, Theo kissed each of her cheeks. 

She stepped back to Harry’s side and ran her eyes over his thin frame. He wore midnight blue robes, accented with silver fastenings and embroidery, with a high collar and a form-fitting placket. And though his hair was typically swooped over his forehead in a devil-may-care style, tonight he’d used a product that held it in place in a thick pompadour.

“You look dashing, Theo!” Hermione caught his eye as she finished her perusal of his body. Though he looked incredible, there was no attraction to be found between them—which made sense, now that she knew Theo’s type. Speaking of, she turned to Harry with a wide grin. “Harry, this is Theo Nott. Theo, Harry Potter.”

Theo’s eyes darkened as he reached out a hand to Harry, “Pleasure, Harry,” he said as his lips ticked up at the corners. “Or pain, if that’s your vibe. I’m flexible, though you won’t get to experience that on the first date—have my chastity to preserve and all that rot.”

_ Right to it then _ , Hermione thought with wide eyes as Harry blustered through pleasantries in an alarming shade of red. True, Hermione may have given Theo insider knowledge; that Harry didn’t take well to subtly and that he was extremely aware of his sexuality but would never outright discuss it with strangers. And, in turn, she’d slipped pieces of information to Harry about Theo, though discreetly and, admittedly, never naming him in her letters.

Sparks flew instantly between the two, and it couldn’t have made Hermione happier. Happy, but also made the hole carved at her other side more pronounced. Even as she’d reintroduced Harry to Theo, she’d damned herself to an evening as the third wheel. It was worth it, though, to see Harry sinking into conversation with Theo and somehow knowing theirs would be a love story she’d one day tell her children. Minus all the bits about Theo’s flexibility, of course.

As the night wore on, Hermione had mingled through the crowd. Searching, always searching, for a pair of familiar grey eyes. Wondering what he’d chosen to wear, how he’d decided to style his hair, curious if he was looking for her, too. It was nearly midnight when she finally saw him for the first time; leaning casually against a wall with a flute of champagne in his hand. As if he could feel her eyes on him, Malfoy’s gaze snapped to hers and drew the most delicious fire into her cheeks.

He wore black, no embellishments to make his robes stand out. His hair perfectly coiffed, partially reminiscent of the way he’d stylized it in his youth, but less severe and far less product gluing it to his scalp.

And the way he looked at her, with his tongue moistening his plump lower lip, eyes flashing even from across the hall. As if he wanted to take her right there and then, and damn who watched on.

Pressing her legs firmly together, Hermione sucked back the golden champagne in her hand and quickly grabbed another. The temperature rose significantly, and she felt perspiration dotting the back of her neck.

When she finally drew her eyes away from Malfoy, a translucent, ice blue clock appeared above the floating candles—Parvati’s idea, so they could properly count down to midnight. Hermione chewed her lip, seeing there was less than five minutes until the clock struck twelve. She brought her stare back to Malfoy and lifted her chin in the direction of the doorway. He had barely tipped his head in response before she tore off towards the exit with her champagne in tow.

She maneuvered around the castle, never turning a corner before checking over her shoulder that Malfoy was close behind. Heels clicking the whole way, echoing through the otherwise bare and silent corridors, Hermione found a familiar nook far away from the party and the watchful eyes of portraits.

It took him only a moment to rip back the tapestry that covered the alcove she’d chosen. A particular favorite of theirs with enough room to hold the two of them.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, immediately pressing himself against her and letting her feel just how beautiful he thought she looked. “I watched you all night, you know. Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

His words sent a rush of desire cascading down her spine, wrapped up in her fluttering belly, and pooling hot and wet between her legs.

“You’re driving me mad,” Malfoy said, sweet breath fanning the loose tendrils of her hair against her neck.

Midnight be damned; she wanted him now.

Not sure what to say, or how to explain what she felt, Hermione grabbed him around the neck, stood on her tiptoes, and brought their lips together in a searing kiss. A kiss Malfoy returned fervently, wasting no time in plundering her mouth greedily, moaning as she met him stroke for stroke as she tangled her fingers in the roots of his hair.

His hands traveled as they always did; skimming her ribs and her hips, then up and up until he palmed her silk covered chest. “No bra,” he breathed heavily, making a strangled noise as his hands closed around her breasts. “Can I kiss you here, Granger?”

Hermione nodded, but he didn’t lower his head from her jaw to her breasts.

Wrapping his fingers over the hem across her bust, Draco licked and nipped at her jaw. “Your words. I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” Her nails scraped along his scalp. “You can kiss me there.”

Malfoy yanked her halter down, exposing her nipples to the chilly castle air. They stiffened immediately as he feasted on them first by sight and then ravenously with his hot, wet mouth. Her back arched as his teeth grazed her sensitive skin. Pulling him closer, harder against her by the hold she had on his hair, unintelligible noises slipped from between her parted lips. Every swipe of his tongue sent feral need straight to the apex of her thighs.

She removed her hands from Malfoy’s hair as he straightened, then chucked the outer layer of his robes to the stone floor. Taking his time, Malfoy unknotted his tie, popped all the buttons open on his shirt, and shrugged it off to join his robes. It left him bare chested, his solid but lithe body on display for her enjoyment. She’d never seen him without his shirt, and the whoosh of breath that left her at the sight was almost embarrassing.

Darkened gaze meeting hers, he reached out and brought her hand to his chest. Holding her palm over the furiously thump of his heart. “Do you feel what you do to me?” And as he watched her eyes, as if he could sense the way her vision went hazy at the edges, he led her hand down, down, and down, over the ridges of his abdomen and into the light smattering of hair beneath his belly button. “Do you want to feel how hard you make me, Granger? Do you want to see?”

Swallowing hard, Hermione dropped her eyes to the hand Malfoy had abandoned in favor of unbuckling his trousers. After plucking the button, he stopped with his fingers toying with the zipper.

“Don't stop,” she pleaded in a voice that didn’t sound anything like hers. Husky and deep. Utterly entranced and eager. “Let me see.”

The sound the zipper made as Malfoy lowered it was obscene. It sent a thrill of need through her, chasing her already burgeoning desire with heady excitement. He lowered his pants gently around his straining erection, allowing it to bob freely between them.

Eyes widening at the sight—and size—Hermione’s mouth went dry as she reached a hand forward and stroked the silky skin with her fingers. It jumped under her touch. Made her want to wrap it tight in her fist. Made her want to stroke it until he jerked in her hand and moaned her name.

Malfoy hissed as he watched her exploration, attention rapt and palpable in the small, dark space. Lifting a hand to her exposed chest, he rolled a pebbled nipple between his fingers. She shuddered as she wrapped her delicate fingers around his stiffness.

“Fuck.” Dropping his head to her shoulder, his breath raised goosebumps along her chest. “I don’t think I’ll last long,” he admitted, voice tense before dropping his lips to her breast. Nipping, licking, and sucking whatever skin he could find.

It bolstered her confidence, the noises he made. The way his hips twitched as she stroked him that first time. “Then don’t,” she whispered, sucking cold air through her teeth as his teeth scraped along the meat of her breast. “Come for me, Draco.”

Snapping his head up, his shining grey eyes clouded. Lips popped open. Tongue dancing along the pillowy flesh as his hips jerked seemingly against his will. “Say it again,” he demanded gruffly.

“Come for me,” Hermione repeated, tightening her fist on the upstroke and reveling in the way he seemed to stiffen further.

“No.” His mouth found a sensitive spot just below her jaw and sucked hard. “My name.” A noise dislodged itself from her throat. Her body keen from the attention he showed it, as if entranced by the sounds and desperate to hear more. “Call me Draco again.”

With her free hand, she forced his chin up, his mouth away from her greedy, desperate body, and pinned his eyes with hers. Her hand worked over him quickly, delighting in the way he moved under her ministrations. “Draco,” she said firmly, so that he couldn’t miss the undeniable hunger lacing itself through her voice. “Come for me, Draco.”

He did. A desperate, aching sound ripped from his lungs as his body weight crumpled into her, pinning her to the wall. She loosened her come-covered grip as his breaths slowed. Enjoying the way he peppered exhausted kisses on her neck.

“Can I touch you like you’ve touched me?” he asked, running his hands along her covered thighs while inching her dress up and up.

Hermione stopped him, a small smile on her face. “It wasn’t a favor, Draco.” Repeating his name again dragged a groan from the back of his throat. “There will be plenty of time for us to explore. Let’s savor it.”

“Not sure what I ever did to deserve your attention,” Draco muttered against her neck, “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it go anytime soon.”

The promise sat heavy between them. What they had now was official. Rather than running from alcove to alcove, or sending owls to suggest meeting locations. Casual. One day at a time. Instead, Draco confessed to wanting to keep her. To refuse to let her go.

It caused a swell of emotion to rise in her throat, thickening it until tears began to collect in the corners of her eyes. The only thing she’d wanted to hear from the one person she never once would have dreamed would say it. The thought clawed at her, made her just as sad as she was elated. A dichotomy that pooled behind her sternum and chilled the heat that had flooded through her veins.

In all the years she’d loved Ron—since fifth year as they bonded while Harry distanced himself—never once had he made her feel what Draco had made her feel in the first few moments of the new millennium, within weeks of their trysts throughout the castle.

And it was that realization that would haunt her for so many years after Hogwarts.

* * *

**_Number 10 And A Half, Downing Street — Present_ **

It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t trust herself to be alone after Cormac’s visit, which had decimated the carefully structured calm she’d clung to. It wasn’t even that she hadn’t come to terms with facing Ron’s affair publicly—she  _ knew _ it would come. She’d just thought it would be on her terms. But, as she snuggled under a weighty blanket with a glass of tepid water, she still itched to reach for her whiskey.

And that was why she’d allowed Draco to escort her through the Floo to her home. Because she knew if he was there, she wouldn’t run to the cabinet and pour herself a drink. She’d  _ try _ , because if he’d watched her take even the smallest sip, the guilt would create a crushing chasm and that thought was enough to keep her sober.

What she intended to do when Draco—or Harry or Theo—wasn’t around, Hermione hadn’t figured it out yet. Her panicked thoughts echoed the fears that had started to surface after Draco’s comment about babysitting drunk Ministers:  _ you have a problem _ .

Pale and exhausted, Hermione sipped from the water glass and stared into the fire Draco had lit across the room.

Was she even cut out for this? Sure it would get worse the longer the campaign went on. Did she really think she could make it through if one comment from Cormac could send her into a tailspin?

“You’re getting lost again,” Draco said, standing from the chair across the room and coming to sit on the small slice of sofa where Hermione’s feet couldn’t reach. “McLaggen’s a tit. Whatever he said to you, it’s unequivocally false.”

She sniffed, then groaned and rested her head against the high arm of the sofa. “You can’t possibly know what he said was untrue. And besides, the article speaks for itself.” Her lips dropped into a scowl, voice as catty as she could muster. “Hermione Granger-Weasley, too obsessed with other species to meet her husband’s needs. Hermione Granger-Weasley, no longer the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Minister Granger-Weasley: Can’t keep her husband happy, lost him to a bombshell celebrity, who by all accounts can bear his children” Tears gathered again, but she allowed her anger to speak through them. “The Minister: Undesirable Number One.”

“Utter rubbish, Granger, and you know it.” He leveled her with a look and slipped his hand under the blanket until his fingers were wrapped around her ankle. Thumb rubbing small concentric circles over her smooth skin. “We’re not going to allow you to take the blame for your husband’s affair—that’s bullshit. We’ll demand a retraction.”

Hermione snorted inelegantly into her glass of water. “The damage will have already been done. Besides, he didn’t even tell me when they were printing it—just came to rub it in my face, the dirty prat.”

Scooting closer, Draco lifted Hermione’s feet onto his lap and continued soft touches along her skin. It felt nice; touch. A reminder that perhaps she wasn’t as numb as she felt. And the familiar blaze of heat that somehow always sparked from Draco’s skin when he touched her hadn’t disappeared. It made her voice catch as she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

Silence followed, but the intense look on Draco’s face as he stared at her spoke volumes. It was a look she’d seen before, knew intimately even. He was working through his words, trying to choose the most impactful; he’d always been a persuasive, effective communicator. That was how he’d talked her into—she forced the smile of recollection away for another time. When she was alone.

“Maybe you’re not. Your life has been upheaved again—the affair, the almost-divorce, the drinking, Ron’s death. That would put anyone off much simpler things than running to control an entire country.” His words stung, but she knew he wasn’t done yet. It was just like him to rile up her emotions only to smooth them over in his next breath. “But, I’m not just here to make sure you win, Granger. I’m here to make sure that when you win, you’re in the best possible position to make the difference you’ve always wanted to make. And if you think I’ll accept any type of failure, then you remember nothing about who I am.”

She let the crackling fire fill the void of noise for a moment, set aside her water, and rested her back against the arm of the sofa. Feet nestled still on his lap. Her hands twisted into the blanket around her torso. The orange glow from the fire danced across Draco’s face as she watched him watching her.

“I remember everything about who you are, Draco,” she whispered, taking a fortifying breath to stop her wavering voice. “I just don’t know that I’m worth the heartache a second time.”

A minuscule curve raised Draco’s lips. “You’re worth it,” he told her, not a weakness in his voice as it carried over the roaring fire. “And I’ll burn the world down to make sure they all know it.”

They sat in each other’s company, not uttering another word, until Hermione fell asleep against the arm of the sofa. When she woke, the world was dark, but she was blanketed in warmth with a fresh glass of water on the side table. She wasn’t sure how long Draco had stayed, but his presence lingered long after she’d trudged off to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate you all so much. Thank you for following along as this angst-fest unravels. <3


End file.
